


When Is A Monster Not A Monster?

by cadmiumChromataphore



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Enemies to Lovers, Implied Past Abuse, M/M, Past War crimes, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, Undead, Vampires, Violence, implied past feminization of a trans male character, kinda they were married before but.... aren't anymore, past relationship had a pretty wild power imbalance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 25,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21652093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadmiumChromataphore/pseuds/cadmiumChromataphore
Summary: Oh, when you love it. Oh, when you used to sing it to sleep.In another world, another time, the Chain faces down Deshival the Forsaken; his ex-husband deals the killing blow, with a prayer for his soul.In this world, Arvain saves him instead - but it's not enough to just change sides. The war has been bloody, particularly since Deshival was put at the helm of the dread vampire Valmore's forces; Deshival may have agreed to slay his Sire and current husband, but that hardly absolves him of his crimes against Arlan. One can only attain redemption through toil and effort - but it remains to be seen whether Deshival even wants to be redeemed.Only time can tell if Deshival is the same man Arvain married all those years ago.* This is an AU of a homebrew setting; background on the setting and characters will be given in chapter notes* I've rated this M for violence, swearing, and general awfulness in the premise/setting* The title/italics quote is fromthis excellent poemby Caitlyn Siehl, who writes lots of wonderful poetry
Relationships: Arvain the Ardent/Deshival the Forsaken, Original Male Character/Original Male Character, past Valmore/Deshival the Forsaken
Comments: 12
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set on the continent of Arlan; Valmore has pulled pieces of the material plane into the Abyss, to bring demon armies into this plane and conquer the continent.
> 
> Valmore Oniran: Powerful vampire wizard. Intends to conquer Arlan with a mixture of demons (including gnolls; gnolls are demonic in this setting) and undead. Turned Deshival into a vampire and made him into his chief general before marrying him.
> 
> The Chain: A group of adventurers trying to stop Valmore.
> 
> Syf Dutharn: Conquest paladin of Asmodeus (LN in this setting); half elf woman. Member of the Chain. Formerly a lawyer.
> 
> Arvain Mailuatae, the Ardent: Redemption paladin of Pelor; half elf man. Member of the Chain. Formerly married to Deshival; left him when Deshival became a necromancer. Wants to save Deshival.
> 
> Deshival the Forsaken: Vampire necromancer; formerly human, trans man. Grew up in a shitty household and town, was never religious because of it. Arvain was the best thing that ever happened to him; they married, and had two children: Tytria and Sirethlan. Both died to illness very young, and Deshival never fully recovered. He tried to become a cleric, but failed when he couldn't connect with any of the gods and turned to necromancy. When Arvain learned of this, he left; Deshival fled town to the tune of angry mobs, and found shelter with his contacts with Valmore's people. An intelligent man, he rose through the ranks as an intelligence officer, but was uninterested in the war or much else outside his creations until one of them, named Danny, wandered into a village and was torn to pieces. Deshival broke, and swore to take revenge on humanity for everything they'd taken from him; he became more invested in the war, and his terror tactics (often involving sleeper "agents") made great progress for Valmore's troops as well as gaining the attention of Valmore himself. He became Valmore's right hand man and entered into an empty relationship with the other vampire, finding himself unable to care about much besides his creations and a longing for his marriage to Arvain. Valmore provided luxury and affection that Deshival chose to accept in return for committing atrocities in Valmore's name.

"Please. Dess. I'm begging you, we don't have to do this-"

Arvain had been at this for half an hour now. The man just didn't understand. He couldn't just surrender, Valmore-

"What would Tytria and Sirethlan think if they saw you now?"

Deshival froze. 

His terrors stopped in place, looking to him for an order.

"Is this the world you wanted them to grow up in? Demons and fear?"

Deshival drew in a shaky breath, and Arvain took a tentative step forward.

"You don't have to do this," Arvain whispered. "You can help us stop it. Please, Dess. Help us fix all this. We can't bring them back, but we can save all the other little Tys and Siris, can't we?"

"You... you don't... I can't..." Deshival bit back a sob and Arvain took another step, now cradling his former lover's cheek in one hand.

"You can. Help us stop him. Help us do good, Dess. You could do so much good here. Ty and Siri would be so proud..." Arvain let out a soft grunt as Deshival launched himself into the man's arms and began sobbing into his shirt. 

"I don't want to be this," the vampire whispered. "I didn't want this. Everything just..."

"Shhh. It's okay. Help us fix this, it'll be okay."

"I... okay. Okay, I... I'll help."

* * *

Standing over Valmore’s corpse hadn’t felt real. After living for years with the man, knowing he could destroy Deshival with a snap of his fingers- he couldn't quite believe they'd done it. When he agreed to change sides, he honestly had assumed he'd die and that would be the end of it- but they'd won. Somehow.

What was left of Valmore’s undead contributions to the army had crumbled, and Deshival’s terrors and abominations had chased off most of what was left. The Chain took him and the other generals into custody- Arvain assured him it would be okay, and Deshival had nodded, but he knew there was no way he was surviving this. He had mobs after him back when all he did was raise dogs and cats, and now he was a mass murderer; surely there would be no mercy.

Deshival watched the trials of his (former?) coworkers as though in a fog, not really processing most of it- and then it was his turn. He gave his resumé on the witness stand, and waited for his execution to be called.

“The Forsaken will be sentenced to reparations, under the Chain’s advisement. The Chain will have full responsibility for the Forsaken until such a time as his debt to Arlan has been repaid.”

That… what? Surely there had been a mistake. Brow furrowed, Deshival opened his mouth to object as officers hurried him from the stand, but it was too late- someone else was speaking now. He was whisked back to his cell, and left alone to his thoughts.

The Chain… Arvain’s group. His leash had been handed over, it seemed. He wondered if Arvain would be the one in charge of him, and sighed. Surely not. Better not to get caught up in wishful thinking; after all, Arvain had made his feelings fairly clear when they had split up. And then Deshival had kept doing all that, but worse.

A thought occurred to him, stomach sinking. He was a vampire. There wasn't… a cure for vampirism. Now that he was to be kept alive, he would always be his own reminder of Valmore. Arlan’s reminder of Valmore.

Well, hopefully the Chain hadn’t saved his life just to throw him to a mob. Death by mob had always sounded unpleasant.

Deshival sat in the corner of his cell quietly, waiting. He assumed it would be a while yet before anyone came for him; the trials still had quite a few officers to work through. He'd been the last of the generals, but it was a large army. He absentmindedly ran a hand through the tangles in his hair, and wondered if it would be possible to convince a guard to cut it for him. Certainly not to give him the knife himself, or a particularly nice looking cut, but…

He'd grown it out for Valmore. He'd also grown it out a bit for Arvain, back in the day, but Valmore was the one Deshival had been trying to please. The other man had liked running his hands through Deshival’s long, white hair, or at least enjoyed that saying so was as good as an order to Deshival to grow it out. It was always hard to tell how much of what pleased Valmore was the actual act or the fact that Deshival could be manipulated with it. Regardless… Valmore was dead now, and Deshival found that the memories of Valmore combing his hair sickened him. A nice, drastic cut would do him some good, he decided.

He wasn't sure how long he was lost in thought about Valmore and their relationship, when he looked up from his cell floor and realized there was an elf staring at him. Syf, he thought dimly. Not the worst handler; as a paladin of Asmodeus, maybe she would let him keep a few of his pets. She seemed content to just stare, however, and so Deshival sat in his corner and stared back, waiting for her to speak.

It took much longer than he expected. 

“Well. I'm here to get you out of this joint. Take this.” She tossed a belt through the bars, and Deshival moved to put it on as she unlocked the cell door. He stood and dutifully followed her out of the jail.

It was night outside. Not particularly surprising, he was a vampire after all- and it meant fewer people out and about. Oddly, no one seemed to notice him; Syf noticed his frown and snorted. 

“The belt makes people look away from you,” she explained. “Figured it would be better to keep attention off of you.” 

Deshival nodded slowly in understanding. No mob, then. A plus. 

“Feeling thirsty?”

Deshival blinked, and looked at her sideways. She didn't seem to be mocking him, but he found her hard to read (probably a lawyer thing, he assumed). 

“...I do not need to feed to survive,” he answered at last, deciding the careful answer was best. She quirked an eyebrow, but shrugged. They walked the rest of the way to the keep in silence.

The keep itself seemed… nice. Compared to Valmore’s lair, it was smaller, more utilitarian, but to be honest, the lair had never really suited Deshival. He'd never grown used to that sort of decadence, and upon spotting the stone walls and fortifications of the Chain’s keep, he immediately decided he liked it. He idly wondered where he would be expected to sleep; not with his handler, he was sure, as he knew Syf was married to another member of the Chain, so likely they had a cell prepared. 

He eyed the guards nervously as they approached the gate, but the belt’s enchantment held and the men simply nodded at Syf as she strode past. Inside the main hall, members of the Chain sat at a long table, several looking up at her in surprise as the doors slammed open. She turned to Deshival. 

“You can take that thing off now.” His stomach dropped again as she held out a hand, but he numbly took it off and gave it back. Surely he'd be fine here. They'd hardly convince Arlan’s trials to spare him, only to kill him themselves, right?

Syf shoved the belt into her bag, before turning to scan the room. Squinting, she growled, “Where the hell’s Arvain? This is his pet project, least he could do is come get the fucker.” 

Deshival inhaled sharply. Syf wasn't his handler? He tried not to hope, but- it sounded like-

A door off to the side swung open and Arvain ran into the room, panting. “Sorry, Syf, got caught up- saw you come in from upstairs-”

Gods, Arvain was radiant. Deshival couldn't stop staring; even sweaty, in a baggy shirt, Arvain looked like an angel sent from Pelor himself. He had his golden hair pulled back, the tips of his pointed ears red from exertion- did Arvain run through half the keep to get here? He quickly squashed the feeling that rose in his chest at that thought. It was for Syf, he reasoned. It didn't matter that he was with Syf, Arvain didn't want to inconvenience his teammate. That was it. Deshival forced himself to look at anything other than his ex husband, and decided that the rug looked _particularly_ fascinating as Arvain approached them.

“I can take it from here.” Deshival tried not to swoon, and felt he was mostly successful. “I'll show him to his room, then we can all… talk.” 

Room? Not… cell? Deshival numbly trotted after Arvain through the keep, still keeping his eyes on the ground.Truly, carpet designs were just so interesting, there was absolutely no other reason for him to avoid eye contact with Arvain. His guide stopped outside a door, and Deshival looked up at it expectantly. It didn't open.

“You won't look at me,” Arvain murmured. Deshival’s heart clenched. “Are you really that angry with me?”

At that, Deshival’s brain screeched to a halt and he looked at Arvain’s disappointed expression in confusion, brow furrowed. Angry? With Arvain? Why in the world would he be angry with the man he loved more than anything, especially when he’d stopped Deshival from making a(nother) terrible mistake?

It seemed that in his puzzling, however, he'd taken too long to respond; Arvain just sighed, and pushed the door open. Deshival, still bewildered, stepped in, looked around, and nearly threw up. It was a near-perfect replica of his room in Valmore’s lair. He faintly wondered if the Chain had went and gotten his actual furniture, and some small part of him did appreciate the intent- but the rest of him screamed in horror at the idea of being back in that place again. 

“...Everything okay there?” Arvain looked him over quizzically, still holding the door open.

Deshival opened his mouth, closed it. Opened it again. “Could I sleep somewhere else?” he finally croaked out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner, a bath, and sleeping arrangements.

The “talk” turned out to involve Deshival sitting at the table next to Arvain, while the Chain ate dinner and discussed what to have him do. He sat quietly and tried not to make eye contact with anyone.

Arvain leaned over. “Are you… do you need anything to drink?” he whispered in Deshival’s ear. 

“It’s fine.” Deshival felt cold. Why did he let Valmore turn him? Why didn't he just persuade the judge to execute him? _A vampire and a paladin sit down to dinner_ was the setup to a cruel joke. “...I can’t die of hunger.” He felt Arvain’s retreat more than he saw it, and focused harder on the tablecloth. 

The conversation continued around them, and out of habit Deshival tuned back in:

“Well, he’s got that army; they look terrifying as hell, but they’ve got to be useful, right?”

“What are you gonna do with an army? What if he decides to turn it back on us? What then?”

“There's still demons out there, yeah? Could use a hand or ten dealing with those and other nasties.”

“What about using them for labor? Aren't undead pretty hardy? There's a lot to be rebuilt…”

“I still say we should burn them all. Why'd we even keep the bloodsucker? Should've let them kill him and be done with it.”

“Deshival helped us,” Arvain argued. “He could have kept fighting, but he helped us stop Valmore. He’s got potential.”

“He’s responsible for thousands of deaths and who knows how much trauma,” someone else snarls. 

Arvain opens his mouth to argue, but Deshival sighs and says quietly, “They're right, and you know it, Arvain.” The table falls silent, seemingly having forgotten the subject of their debate was present.

“What do you think we should do with you?” Syf drawls, leaning on one hand. Deshival looks to her and is suddenly struck by the thought that she must have been a terrifying opponent in court- she looks like she doesn't give a shit, but he can see her eyes are sharp. A test, he thinks. 

“...You should have executed me,” he says. The table murmurs, and he thinks he hears an I told you so. “But you didn't, so I’d appreciate if you made me useful. I…” His throat is dry. Syf’s attention has grown even sharper. Maybe this was the wrong answer. “...I could help in the ways you've mentioned. Fighting demons, rebuilding. You're right, I could turn, but,” and he swallows, “if you kill me, they all die. My handler can just stake me and that's that.”

Syf raises a brow. “And why should we let you do this on your terms? Seems awfully bold of you to assume your army is even alive. We have no reason to let such ugly monst-”

“They're not ugly or monsters,” Deshival snaps, baring fangs. Arvain and several others put their hands on their weapons; he looks around and wilts. “...I know they're alive, because after Danny was destroyed I started adding a tether to all my designs. I know how many are alive and what direction they're in. I… feel when they die. I know you don't have a reason to trust me, or listen to me, but I’ve been cooperating. I just told you how easy it would be to stop me if I went rogue.”

No one says anything.

“You don't have to give them all back to me at once. You don't even have to let me see them. Knowing the location I'm to be operating in would help, of course, but I can give orders remotely. How else would my- my army have turned on his so quickly?”

Syf looks around the table. “I say we let him have one back. One of the less weird ones.”

Deshival bites back a retort that they're not weird- most of the Chain members near him still haven't let go of their weapons. Discussion picks back up, but Deshival isn't listening; suddenly he feels very tired.

He leans towards Arvain, tries to ignore the other man’s flinch. “Do I have to be here?” he whispers. “Is… am I allowed to leave?”

He waits, trying not to listen to Arvain’s heartbeat. This close, he can feel the warmth off Arvain’s skin, and his mouth waters. Fuck. He really is thirsty- he can't remember when he last fed, but it was definitely before the Chain came to face him. How long has it been…? Arvain finally replies, interrupting his thoughts.

“I can take you back upstairs.”

Deshival thinks of the room, and shudders, but… he looks over at Syf, her calculated gaze. Asmodeus’s lawyer seems to be his biggest supporter, and he doesn't have the energy to deal with that right now. He looks up at Arvain, and nods.

The two stand, and Arvain puts a hand on Deshival's shoulder, steering him out of the room. The two walk back through the keep, and Deshival braces himself- but they walk past his room. Arvain takes him further down the hall, to a different door, and gently pushes him into the room.

It's a somewhat sparse room; a few papers and trinkets lay on the desk in the corner. Deshival looks at the bed, neatly made, and stiffens. He recognizes that blanket. Arvain notices, and gives a tired smile.

“Sorry, it’s my room or yours. You didn't seem to like yours much, so I figured this would be better. I could take you back if-”

Deshival quickly shakes his head, and gingerly moves to sit on the bed. He's suddenly very aware of how grimy he is, between the fight, the jail cell, and however long it's been since his last bath, and debates moving to the floor.

Arvain nods, satisfied. “Well. I've got to go back down, so I'm going to have to lock you in here. Sorry. Shouldn't be too much longer, though; I'll see about getting you to the baths afterwards.”

The door closes, and Deshival hears the bolt slide home. So. Arvain had also noticed how filthy he was. He moves off the bed, and decides to lie on the floor. There's no carpet, so he can hardly ruin anything there. Left to his own thoughts again, though, Deshival finds his hunger resurging with a vengeance. Even though he knows he doesn't need to feed - Valmore had taught him about the basics of their form, at least - the urge gnaws at him. He wonders if the Chain had any plans to feed him at some point - perhaps one of the other generals? - but dismisses the thought, thinking of the way one of them had said “bloodsucker,” and sighs. Best to get used to the hunger, he thinks dimly, and curls up on the wood flooring.

* * *

He’s still laying there when Arvain returns several hours later. The lock scrapes open, the door creaks, and Deshival is intently focusing on a tiny crack in the wall paint. He doesn't look up as Arvain enters the room and carefully steps over him.

“Are you alright?” 

Deshival shrugs, the movement barely perceptible. Arvain crouches next to him, and Deshival _really_ wishes he wouldn't. He can almost smell Arvain’s blood from here.

“I’m going to take you down to get a bath,” Arvain says, gently. “I can tell you're not happy to be here, and that's okay, but you’ll feel a little better when you're clean.”

Deshival absently wonders what he did to deserve Arvain, before remembering whatever it is, he's definitely canceled it out by now.

“I'm going to pick you up now.”

Deshival startles, not quite realizing where this had been headed, but doesn't struggle - he knows better. And besides, he finds it's rather nice to have an excuse to lean into Arvain. It's been too long since he could do this, and while he knows it’s ultimately nothing… he finds that Arvain’s straightforwardness is a welcome change to Valmore’s manipulations. He doesn't have to question why Arvain’s taking care of him: he’s an asset. 

“Uh. So, you’re gonna want to take your clothes off. Are you… I’m going to put you down. Can you manage from here?” Deshival hums noncommittally. “That's… not very helpful, Dess.”

Deshival, curious, waits. He hears Arvain fidget and suppresses a smile. 

“I can't tell if… I don't want to, like, take your clothes off without permission, Dess, but you kinda gotta take a bath. Do you… I…”

Deshival takes pity on him. “I can manage.” He slowly sits up, and reaches to untie his dress. The one Valmore got for him, and insisted he wear as general. Deshival frowns. Pretty much all his clothing is from Valmore. He makes a decision. 

“Wh- Deshival!” 

The sound of ripping cloth fills the room, as Deshival claws through his garments and pulls them off of him. He leaves the shreds where they are, and slides into the water - he groans at the warmth. When’s the last time he’s been this warm? Surely before he was turned. Switching leashes is probably the best decision he’s made in a long time. 

Ignoring Arvain’s muttering as he deals with the remains of the clothing, Deshival finds a cloth and soap and begins scrubbing his skin. It feels like decades of grime are coming off of his skin, but perhaps Bladeholm just needs to clean its prisons better. He’s about to reach for his hair, when he feels hands begin to massage his scalp and freezes. The hands pause.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Ah. Somehow, Deshival had forgotten Arvain was still there. If it's him, he doesn't mind, he supposes, but…

“...Can I borrow your sword?” he blurts. Arvain is silent, and he bites his lip. That wasn't how he meant to ask. 

“Why?”

“I… my hair. I want- I want to cut it. It's too long.” 

Arvain is quiet. Deshival feels him withdraw, and his heart sinks. He turns, opens his mouth to apologize, but stops - Arvain is getting scissors out of a drawer.

“How long do you want it? I'm not a professional, but we can't really take you to one, sorry.” 

Deshival wants to scream at him to stop apologizing when Deshival’s the one who went and bathed in the blood of Arlan, but instead he tells Arvain to make it chin-length. The two sit in silence, the snipping of scissors the only sound in the room. 

“...Alright. How’s that?”

He tentatively reached up to touch his hair. It felt… odd, he’d grown it out for so long, but he decided it was much better than before. “It will do. Thank you.”

Arvain set down the scissors, and returned to Deshival’s scalp. He sighed and relaxed into Arvain’s ministrations, letting his eyes fall closed. After a few minutes of silence, Arvain spoke.

“Aren't you… curious?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, we decided what you'd be doing without you. Don't you want to know?”

Deshival shrugged. “Does it matter?” he sighed. “I'll find out what I’m doing when you pull the leash. Knowing ahead of time won't change anything.”

Arvain was quiet for a long moment. He poured water over Deshival’s head, and reached for a different soap. “You sound so defeated. Is it just… I thought… You know what, never mind.” 

Deshival frowned. “Why should I not resign myself to my fate? What's done is done. I earned an execution; anything less is already a mercy.” I've always had a leash, he wanted to say. I gave you my heart, and when you left I didn't know what to do, he wanted to say. He stayed silent.

It seemed that wasn't the answer Arvain was expecting. He didn't speak for the rest of Deshival’s bath, turning away as he stepped out of the water and handing him a towel.

“You can use my bathrobe for now. We’ll, uh, need to get you new clothes, I guess.”

“I'm sure I still fit in your clothing,” Deshival shrugged. “It will do for now.”

Arvain scratched his chin, looking at the remains of the old dress. “Y’know, I hadn't really thought that sort of thing was your style. Don't remember you wearing dresses back… before…”

“It's not.”

“Oh.”

Arvain held the door for Deshival, rubbing his nose to hide the embarrassed flush spreading over his cheeks. Deshival tried not to look too closely - Arvain was always so cute when he got embarrassed, but the thirst was starting to return with a vengeance. He followed Arvain back to his room, and was surprised when the other man didn't follow him in. 

“I'm going to be right back. Uh, you can raid my closet if you want, robe probably won't be comfortable to sleep in.”

The door shut, and Deshival stood in the center of the room, blinking as the lock clicked into place. 

Several minutes later, he had selected one of Arvain’s larger shirts from the closet (and if it was chosen for sentimental reasons, no one had to know), and was perched on the bed, waiting. The lock shifted, and Deshival frowned, sniffing the air. Something was… off. He couldn't place it, until Arvain gingerly opened the door and Deshival’s attention locked onto the small, clear bag of red liquid he was holding.

Blood.

It was blood, Arvain was holding blood, it was _right there_ , he could just _take_ it, maybe take _him_ next, drink his fill--

Deshival took a shaky breath, unable to tear his eyes away. “What,” he croaked, “are you doing?”

“Giving you dinner, since you won't ask for it.” Arvain frowned. “You gave Syf the same line you gave me - you didn't think we were going to starve you, did you? I’m not- We’re not cruel, Dess.”

Deshival tried to think of a reply, but it was all he could do to not lunge at Arvain.

“I - We can’t kill people for you, Dess, but we stocked up on animal blood. You don't have to go hungry,” he said, tone softening. He held the bag out, and the last thread of Deshival’s control snapped.

With a feral snarl, he lunged. Arvain yelped as he was slammed into the door, and Deshival sank his teeth into the bag and began to drink. It wasn't until the bag was drained that the haze lifted, and he realized that he was kneeling between Arvain’s legs, pinning him to the door while Deshival drank from the bag in his hand. He shrank back warily, gauging Arvain’s expression, but the man just seemed… shocked. He reached up to wipe his mouth.

“Okay. Uh. Well.” Arvain didn't move, though Deshival no longer had him pinned. He just kept staring.

“Sorry,” the vampire muttered. “I didn't mean to- I lost control. I'm sorry.”

“Uh.” 

“It- the hunger, when it’s bad, I have trouble… stopping myself,” he tried again. 

Arvain just stared at him blankly.

“...Maybe don’t bring starving vampires blood personally.”

That seemed to do something; Arvain flushed indignantly. “Someone had to! You wouldn't tell us you were hungry! How was I supposed to know you'd jump me!”

Now _that_ was a nice thought, Deshival mused. Not right now, though. He stood and brushed himself off, before replying, “I’m a vampire, Arvain. You really should stop treating me like a person.”

“But you _are_ a person,” and dammit, it wasn't fair for Arvain to be able to look so disappointed. “Look, I know I don't know a lot about your… situation… but you could help, you know. You said it's just bad when you're hungry, right? _Tell us_. We’ll feed you.”

And oh, that’s another nice thought. No, bad Deshival, stop that. “...Fine. I should be… adequate until tomorrow evening.”

Arvain squinted. “Fine like you won't attack me if I bring you one, or fine like I should put on armor first?”

Deshival snorted. “The former.”

“Alright. Well. That was exciting and all, but I’m gonna sleep. You should try to sleep too.”

Deshival shrugged, and watched Arvain get into bed before plopping himself onto the floor.

“Wh… what are you doing?”

He blinked. “...Sleeping?”

“On the _floor_?”

There wasn't exactly anywhere else that he could see. “...Yes? Where else?”

“Dess.”

He waited, confused.

“Oh my gods, get in the bed, Dess.”

Oh.

_Oh._

_Okay then._

Gingerly, Deshival stood and eased under the covers. There was enough room for both of them, barely, and Arvain pulled him in with one arm. Deshival let himself be moved, uncertain; it had been so long… Arvain was so warm…

“Get some rest, Dess. We’ll talk about what you'll be doing in the morning.”


	3. Chapter 3

Deshival was fairly certain he hadn't slept so well in years. Stretching, he peered around the room. It seemed Arvain had managed to get out of bed without waking him, as the man was nowhere to be seen. Bright sunlight streamed in through the window curtains, and Deshival watched dust mites drift through the air. It had been a very long time since he’d seen the sun properly…

It didn't take long before he heard a quiet knock on the door, and Arvain slipped back into the room. Deshival turned to blink lazily at him, not particularly wanting to get up just yet. Arvain gave him a small smile.

“Good morning.” Deshival hummed, and Arvain came to sit on the bed next to him. “We’ll be traveling today, but I wanted to ask you about something.”

Deshival blinked slowly, waiting for Arvain to continue.

“...I’ll take that as a go-ahead. It's about your room.” Deshival stiffened. “I’ve gotten the message that you don't like it, but I would like to know why. We can see about changing the furnishings while I’ve got you out of the keep, but I need to know what the problem is.”

Deshival bit his lip, averting his gaze; Arvain sighed. 

“Please, Dess. I just want to help make this more comfortable for you.” 

You could let me sleep in your bed, he thought, but he squashes that thought. It doesn't do to keep monsters at the foot of your bed like cats. Just as Arvain began to sigh and move to get up, Deshival spoke.

“Contrary to popular belief, I prefer not to be reminded of Valmore.” Arvain settled back to look at him, and he briefly debated before continuing. “...I would prefer anything but that familiarity.” He pretends he doesn't see Arvain glance at the shirt he’s borrowed, or the worn blanket he’s thoroughly tangled himself up in.

“Were you not… happy there?”

Deshival breathed in sharply. “I don't believe that's any of your business, Mailuatae. Do you not have better things to do than pry into _my_ private life?” He pretends not to notice Arvain’s wounded expression - he’s gotten very good at pretending over the years. 

Arvain stood wordlessly, and moved to close the curtains. Deshival hauled himself out of bed, looking around. 

“Is there anything for me to wear, or should I borrow more of your clothes?”

Arvain’s mouth was set in a thin line. “Your old wardrobe arrived this morning, but I’m going to assume you don't want it either. What you have on will do until we reach our destination, we’ll work it out later.”

Deshival shrugged, and followed Arvain from the room. He ignored the other Chain members they passed by, as they rose eyebrows at Arvain or gawked at Deshival’s attire. Syf passed the belt from yesterday to him in the entry hall, and Deshival put it on over Arvain’s shirt without breaking stride. 

The sunlight, however, made him hesitate; but Arvain kept moving, and so Deshival took a breath and hurried after him. He hissed as his skin began to burn, but bit his lip and willed himself to keep pace. Arvain led the two of them to a covered wagon outside the keep gates, and Deshival sighed gratefully for the reprieve once inside.

The wagon seemed to be empty, except for a covered cage in the back and a small chest. Deshival tried to peer under the coverings from where he was sitting, but he couldn't seem to make anything out.

“Leave it be,” Arvain said coldly, as he walked out of the cabin. “You’ll find out what it is when I let you.”

Ah, so Arvain was angry with him. Well, he hadn't wanted to talk about Valmore, and especially not with Arvain of all people, so tough. Besides, it was better this way, Deshival thought dimly. Less likely he’d forget their roles as handler and beast. He clung to this thought as the sound of horses trotting drifted into the cabin, and they began to move down the road. 

Deshival sat in silence, staring at the wall for the rest of the ride. He was desperately tempted to remove the cover on the cage, but he also didn't particularly want to find out what a smite powered by Pelor felt like, so he left it be. The spell he had told the Chain about the previous night was, of course, still active - and he knew one of his children was in that cage. His heart ached, and his curiosity ate at him, but he remained still and focused on the grain of the wooden wall.

When the wagon rolled to a stop and Arvain re-entered, Deshival could see the night sky behind him. Arvain crossed over to the chest, opened it, and pulled out two bedrolls. He tossed one to Deshival, along with a blood pack.

“We’ll start out again at first light. Don’t make a mess, I don't want to smell blood all tomorrow.”

Deshival nodded silently, carefully sealing his mouth around the edge of the bag before piercing it with his fangs. When he’d drained it, he handed it back to Arvain, who tossed it back in the chest and climbed into his own bedroll. Deshival hesitated.

“What.”

“It’s just… is someone keeping watch?”

Arvain snorted. “Someone would have to be stupid to attack one of us. No watch, we’ve got other precautions.”

“Like?”

“Don’t think that's any of your concern, Forsaken. Go to sleep.” Arvain turned away from him.

Silently, Deshival laid down and did the same.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deshival's first assignment, and a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fleshripper: A monster of a gnoll, kept on a short leash by Valmore while he was still alive; gnolls in general were disliked by Valmore but considered useful. His bloodhoarde made up the largest part of Valmore's forces. The first Fleshripper was killed by the Chain to disrupt the Feast, a gnoll ritual, and Valmore selected a second Fleshripper afterwards to invest more power into.
> 
> The Feast: A gnoll ritual for power, involving the indiscriminate slaughter of an entire town. Deshival supplied weaponry to Fleshripper and his forces for the Feast.
> 
> A note on Deshival: He considers his undead creations his children; they're a large part of how he copes with the death of his biological children. They aren't literal children or made from anyone related to him.

The next day of travel went much the same. The only difference was that instead of stopping to sleep, Arvain hauled Deshival out of the cart, made sure he was wearing the belt, and told him not to speak to anyone. The sun hadn't quite set yet, and Deshival winced as he stepped into the last rays of sunlight; Arvain, impatient, pulled him along through village streets and into a small building. 

“Thalia’s Tailoring” was a small shop, two mannequins on display by the door; Arvain swept in, and Deshival hurried to follow. He tried not to sigh in relief at being out of the sun. A shopkeeper came up to flirt with Arvain, but he waved her off, and asked Deshival to indicate something he’d wear. 

Half an hour later, a somewhat bewildered Deshival found himself being shoved out of the store with a pile of new clothing. He hadn't expected a full wardrobe, but he wasn't going to complain. The sun had set by now, and the two men made their way back to the wagon. 

Deshival hesitated, before venturing, “Am I to do work here?” 

Arvain startled. “Ah, no; there’s another village we’ll reach tomorrow. We’ve evacuated everyone from it, you'll be able to work without interruption.” 

Deshival nodded, and settled back into the cart.

The next afternoon, they arrived. Deshival changed into an outfit with a hooded cloak to help protect against the sun, and stepped out to survey the damage. The foundations of most of the buildings were intact, it seemed, but the walls had almost all been knocked in and roofs burned. He winced, remembering when his army had come through here; this was his own work he had to undo.

A series of slow, methodical thuds behind him broke him from his thoughts. Deshival turned to investigate, and gasped at the sight of one of his undead elementals, lovingly crafted from grave soil and earth elemental remains. He broke into a run, and leapt into his thrall’s pebbled arms, ignoring Arvain's gag as he was immediately smeared with grave soil and rot. His thrall set him down, and Deshival began to inspect the necromental.

“It's fine,” Arvain sighed. “We didn't do anything to any of them after you surrendered.” 

“If _you_ were separated from _your_ family you'd want to check them over yourself, too.” Deshival sniffed.

Arvain gave him a mildly disgusted look. “I'm going to patrol the area. We’ll meet back here this evening for you to feed.”

Deshival nodded, and began pulling the necromental towards one of the buildings. “Come, Pascal, we have work to do.”

Between Deshival molding what stone was there into fresh bricks and Pascal methodically reassembling the walls, the two made significant progress that day. Deshival left the necromental to its work and returned to the wagon that evening very pleased with himself.

Arvain, however, was not in such high spirits. He was frowning as Deshival approached, seemingly lost in thought; he startled when he noticed Deshival walking towards him, and sighed.

“Sorry. Was a bit distracted.” He handed Deshival a blood pack.

The vampire frowned, sniffing the air. “Why are you bloody? Is that…”

“Gnolls.” Arvain unwrapped a sandwich from the chest and took a bite. “Fuckers didn't get the memo about the war, I guess.”

Deshival wrinkled his nose, but didn't comment. The two ate together in silence; Deshival finished first, and trotted back into the village to check on Pascal.

The elemental seemed to have a fairly large pile of stone to work with, so Deshival instructed it to continue building down the street until it was out of materials. It dutifully obeyed, and Deshival sat against a wall to watch for a while.

“I’d forgotten how much Arvain hates you,” he mumbled. Pascal didn't react. “Oh, I don't mean you personally,” he added hastily, “Arvain just… doesn't like undead. Or necromancy. It's why he left me, you know.”

Pascal didn't reply.

“...I never really understood,” he whispered. “I wasn't hurting anyone. Not back then. Everyone just _hated_ me, hated my children… they hadn't done anything. _I_ hadn't done anything, just made some dogs. Made a winged cat once, out of a pigeon and someone’s drowned pet. Danny was my most ambitious project, before… before.”

Pascal continued working in silence.

Deshival sighed, and stood. “I should get back, before Arvain thinks I've tried to escape.” He left Pascal to its work, and returned to Arvain and the silent wagon. 

The next day proceeded much the same, and the day after that, and the day after that. Arvain occasionally encountered a gnoll or two, but seemed to dispatch them easily enough. Deshival tried to subtly look him over whenever the man came back with blood on his sword, but Arvain always seemed to be in one piece. 

It wasn't until after the better part of a week, with Pascal working on the last of the roofs, that things went wrong. Deshival had been watching Pascal work after dinner again; it had become a routine to talk at his thrall while it worked. 

“...don't know, it just feels like maybe I was never made to be a real person, you know? I just don't fit in.” 

Pascal didn't respond. Deshival opened his mouth to continue, but paused to listen when he heard a noise. It sounded like distant snarling… gnolls? He leapt to his feet, ordering Pascal to follow quietly, and ran to investigate. 

The snarling grew louder as he drew closer, and he began to pick out individual gnoll voices - many of them. He picked up the pace, and finally they came into sight and Deshival’s heart dropped in his chest - Arvain was surrounded by an entire warpack of gnolls and hyenas. Normally, he wouldn't be concerned - Arvain was a fearsome fighter - but there were so many, and they had him surrounded… 

One lifted a sword wreathed in necrotic energy behind Arvain, and as it began to swing downwards Deshival shot forwards with a snarl. Arvain looked back and began to say something, but Deshival interrupted him with a growl as he tore the gnoll’s arm off. Pascal arrived and plowed through the pack, hurling gnolls left and right; they began to turn their focus towards the necromental, yipping in fury.

Deshival got off of his prey, only to find that he’d made himself a target; a group of the gnolls swarmed him and he hissed as their weapons cut into his unarmored flesh. He tore the throat out of one with his claws, and threw another into its allies; Deshival looked up in time to see another gnoll about to stab Arvain and launched into him. Arvain spluttered as he was pushed out of the way; the blade sank into Deshival’s stomach and he let out a strangled cry. 

“Dess, fuck-” Arvain beheaded a gnoll. “What are you-”

Deshival ignored him, latching onto the gnoll stabbing him with both hands. He growled and sank his fangs into the gnoll’s throat - it howled as he drank from it, before cutting off with a strangled noise as he ripped its throat open with a jerk of his head. With a feral snarl, Deshival cast a spell into the thinning crowd of gnolls and launched himself at another target.

The rest of the fight didn't last long. Pascal proved effective at scattering the gnolls as Arvain and Deshival picked them off; by the end of it, Deshival was panting, face smeared with blood. Arvain looked at him and wrinkled his nose, then sighed.

“Thanks, Dess… Deshival. There were more of them than I thought, they must've been gearing up all week to attack - what's wrong?”

Deshival was staring at one of the gnolls, completely still.

“Deshival?”

He ignored Arvain, walking over and kneeling next to the corpse. He pulled something off of its body, his hand shaking. Arvain moved to take a look, and swore. 

“Isn't that Fleshripper’s symbol? What’s it doing here, we’ve killed him like, twice now - we even kept the body this time, he can't be back.”

“I… it wasn't the same Fleshripper, they just… they just call whoever Valmore picks that, Valmore’s _dead_ , Arvain. He's dead, right? I didn't make that up? Why is there another Fleshripper, I… we… we killed him…” 

Arvain looked to the vampire with alarm as he began to shake, hyperventilating. He pulled Deshival to him.

“Hey, hang on, listen- he is dead, breathe with me, okay? Can you do that?” Deshival nodded slowly, staring at the gnoll. Arvain took Deshival by the chin and turned the vampire’s face to him as he began to breathe in and out, slow and deep. Deshival buried his face in Arvain’s chest with a strangled sobbing noise. “It's okay. It's over. It's been over for almost a month, he's gone. They're all gone. You're okay.”

Deshival clung to him as he cried and shook, and Arvain continued to murmur what he hoped were comforting words. He glanced over at Pascal, but the elemental was still, its orders fulfilled. 

Eventually, Deshival’s shivering slowed. He carefully removed himself from Arvain’s arms, not looking at him.

“Should we… burn the bodies,” he asked, voice shaky. 

“Probably.” 

Deshival ordered Pascal to help in gathering the corpses. The three worked together to pile them into one place - several more bore the Fleshripper’s sign, but Deshival bit his lip and did his best not to react further. Once they'd all been arranged, he lit the makeshift pyre with magic, and stood with Arvain to watch them burn.

“I really hate gnolls,” he whispered.

Arvain glanced towards him. “Didn't you help with the Feast? Why help with a gnoll ritual if you hate them so much?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, what should I have done? Told Valmore no, fuck the gnolls and your plans, send your own reinforcements?” 

“Yeah? Or stopped it, you had an army.”

Deshival let out a harsh laugh. “Yes, and I suppose Valmore would have been merciful and just torn me to pieces for betraying him, instead of full on torture. You don't tell Valmore no, Arvain.”

Arvain watched the flames silently for a moment. “Not even you?”

“Of course not _me_ , why would I be different?” Deshival spit at the bonfire. “I'm going to sleep. Pascal, finish the houses, would you?”

The elemental trudged off towards the village, and Deshival left Arvain standing alone by the flames.

* * *

The next morning saw the repairs complete. Deshival instructed Pascal to obey Arvain, heart sinking; but Arvain only asked Pascal to sit in the back of the wagon and stay there, not back in the cage. Deshival happily spent that day’s traveling curled up on his thrall’s lap. 

That evening, as Arvain and Deshival had dinner together, Arvain spoke up.

“When you found that gnoll badge… you kinda… what hap- you know what, there’s really no good way to ask this. Are you doing okay? You kinda freaked out back there and I don't understand what happened.”

Deshival sighed. “I will be fine. You don't need to know.”

Arvain frowned, dissatisfied. “But if I don't know, I can't help, can I? I'm supposed to take care of you, Dess- Deshival. I really wish you'd confide in me more so I can at least do my job.”

“And that is why I don't. It's a job to you, Arvain. I don't begrudge you for it, but I’m not interested in picking wounds open for my jailor’s satisfaction. I will be fine.” 

Arvain looked ready to argue, and Deshival rolled his eyes. 

“I'm going to sleep. Goodnight, Arvain.”

“...Goodnight, Dess.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return to the keep; Magus has a bone to pick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magus: Eldritch knight; half orc man. Made from a patchwork of body parts and memories, to be the perfect soldier. Magus was created 5 years ago and has the mental maturity of a 15 year old; Deshival's intel on Magus was incomplete, and he is under the impression that Magus is a fully grown adult who was _enhanced_ 5 years ago with various body parts. 
> 
> Kumar Luna: Spore druid and zealot barbarian; firbolg man. Generally a kind and chill person, considers death and violence to be a natural part of life. Involved romantically with Syf.

Another day of travel saw them to the keep. Deshival frowned and worried his hands as he stepped out of the wagon, leaving Pascal to the guards; logically, he was sure the necromental would be fine. There was no reason for the Chain to hurt it, especially as it had been ordered to comply. Emotionally, however, Deshival was leaving one of his children to the very people who delighted in tearing them apart, and he hated standing aside as they took Pascal away. 

Arvain gently guided him inside the keep, where the Chain was sitting down to dinner. Arvain greeted his companions, as Deshival nodded to Syf; she ignored him to continue speaking with Kumar, her firbolg boyfriend, and Deshival found himself wholly unsurprised.

What _did_ surprise him was the goblet of blood sitting on the table at his seat. Also that he had a seat, but predictably it was next to Arvain like last time. Deshival gingerly took the goblet in hand and sipped from it, watching the table over the brim. 

“So, how’d it go?”

“Yes, you’re back earlier than expected.”

“Everyone in one piece, so it’s good news, yes?”

Arvain raised a hand. “If you’ll let me tell you…” The hall quieted down. “The trip went very well. Deshival and his thrall worked efficiently and diligently. I did run into some gnolls; most of them weren't an issue, but Deshival and his thrall came to my defense when a group of them ambushed me.” Murmurs broke out. Arvain hesitated, before continuing, “He could have left me to the gnolls, but he not only fought with me, he took a sword for me. I believe he can be trusted with visitation to his… creations. As a reward for good behaviour.” 

That caused a stir. Deshival was distracted, however- visiting his children? He hadn't thought that was on the table; but he tried not to get his hopes up. 

Magus waved a hand in the air to catch the group’s attention. “You left pretty pissed with the guy, were alone with him for a week, and then suddenly you want to reward him? Are we sure you're not… compromised?” 

Deshival set down the goblet. “All spells relating to the enchantment school of magic were removed from my spellbook after my capture. You can examine it yourself, if you like.”

Vildris snorted. “I don't think Magus meant magic. There’s more than one way to convince a guy, if you know what I mean.”

Oh. White hot anger swelled in his chest; he distantly noted that Arvain, at least, also looked offended. 

“Arvain has never been known for an attraction to _corpses_. I thought the Chain of all people would know that.” He drained his goblet and slammed it down on the table, before removing himself from the table and leaving them all in silence. 

He was probably supposed to wait for Arvain to escort him, but he was too angry to care. Why did everyone have to keep rubbing their old relationship in his face? It was enough having Arvain so close and having to remind himself nothing he did meant anything - but to have the Chain act like Arvain would even _consider_ touching him like this? Arvain left him because he made undead, and he was still human then. Now that he was everything Arvain and his god abhorred, he knew damn well there would never be anything between them again. 

He reached the door to his own room, and paused. Arvain had said something about changing the furniture… it couldn't hurt to look. He cautiously opened the door and peered into the room.

Everything familiar was gone. In its place were black and silver furnishings he’d never seen before, a stark contrast to Valmore’s reds and golds. He wandered over to the window, and examined the drapery: thick, heavy, and dark. No sunlight would be getting in while they were drawn. It was almost overwhelming, how much better the room was now; he idly wondered who had been in charge of the changes.

He moved to the wardrobe, and began poking through its contents. Shirts, pants, several heavy cloaks… someone had put a lot of thought into this as well. A rap on the doorframe interrupted his exploration. 

He turned, and grimaced to see Magus in the doorway. The eldritch knight let himself into Deshival’s room and looked around.

“Nice digs they got you, vampire.” 

“What do you want.”

“No hello? Alright then. I want to know why you betrayed Valmore.”

Deshival frowned in confusion. “Why do you want to know that? It doesn't matter. I did and here we are.”

“But it does matter. Who’s to say you won't do it again? I need to know why you did it.” 

“I say I won't. Besides, you’re all capable of killing me if you really need to, it would be stupid to turn on you. It really doesn't matter what happened with Valmore.”

Magus raised his eyebrows. “So something did happen? Lover’s quarrel- or is monster’s quarrel more accurate?”

“Shut up.”

“I don't think I will. You're hiding something. I don't trust you, and I especially don't trust you with Arvain. We checked that he’s still him, but I don't like you being left alone with him.”

He bristled. “What are you implying? I told you downstairs, we’re not… involved.”

Magus sneered. “So it would be even easier for you to turn on him, wouldn't? Make him one of your little terrors, even the playing field a bit.”

Deshival opened his mouth to protest, but Magus wasn't finished.

“You've already killed one husband, what's another one, bloodsucker?”

Deshival roared and launched himself at the man. Pinning him to the wall by the throat, Deshival leaned in to snarl in his face: “You know _nothing_ about me.”

“I know you’re a monster,” Magus choked out. Deshival growled and pushed him harder into the wall, cracking the plaster. “I know you need to be put down like the rabid dog you are, but Arvain won't let us.”

Deshival just snarled. “You haven't _seen_ monster yet, little abomination. Perhaps I should unravel your seams.”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

Deshival whipped around as Arvain stormed into the room, and dropped Magus. The knight stepped away from him, wincing and rubbing his throat.

“What are you even doing here, Magus? Get out, you shouldn't be here.” Arvain waited for him to leave, before rounding on Deshival again. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you, Deshival? It was one thing for you to constantly sneer and push me away when I just wanted to help, but picking fights with children? Really?”

Arvain was glaring at him, Deshival just stared back. Children? Magus was clearly an adult. 

“There are some things you don't say without expecting a fight,” Deshival growled.

“I don't _care_ what he said, you’re over thirty years older than him, you don't fucking shove children into _walls_ because you don't like their _tone_ , like some kind of- of _monster_.”

Deshival’s blood ran cold. That would make Magus… no. No no no, there was no way. His intel had said Magus was enhanced, but this would mean… 

“I can’t believe we almost - I can’t do this,” Arvain growled. 

He stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him, and Deshival sank onto his bed with his head in his hands. Magus was created five years ago. Magus was a _child_. He had just assaulted a _child_ , and Arvain barely stopped him from _killing a child_ less than a month ago, when he had surrendered to the Chain.

Several hours later, Syf knocked on his door and barged in to find him still locked in his existential crisis. She rolled her eyes and smacked him upside the head.

“Ow!” 

“Quit moping, dinner time.” She shoved a blood pack at him, and crossed her arms, waiting. Deshival drank quickly, eyeing her with confusion and curiosity. 

“I’m your new handler, since you managed to piss Arvain off so spectacularly. Kudos, by the way, don't think I've seen him that mad in ages, you've got a gift.”

Deshival stared at her blankly. “When’s my next assignment?”

She frowned at his lack of response, but answered, “It can be whenever you want. We’ve got a list put together for you to go down.”

“Tomorrow?”

She shrugged. “If you’re really that eager to get back to it, sure. I’ll make preparations. Get some sleep, Fangs.” 

Well, if nothing else, this should be interesting, Deshival thought with a sigh. He went to bed, and tried not to dwell on Arvain’s anger or Magus’s age. 

He was not successful.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Deshival woke to a knock at his door. Thinking it was Syf, he crossed the room and opened it - only to find himself face to face with Arvain and Arla. He started to close the door, but Arvain caught it with a stony expression. 

“Arla has questions for you.”

Deshival made a face, but let go of the door and stepped aside. Folding his arms he stared at the halfling woman and waited. 

She examined his face for a moment, before she spoke. “Magus tells me he came to ask you about your history with Valmore, and you attacked him.”

“...Something like that. I'm sure he left out the parts where I didn't want to talk about it and he taunted me.” He paused. “I didn't… I didn't know. About Magus.”

“You expect me to believe you didn’t _know_?” Arla said sharply. “You? Valmore’s prized spymaster?”

“My contacts told me he was enhanced! They didn't tell me he was _made_!” Deshival dragged a hand down his face. “Please tell me you came to talk about something other than Magus.” 

She gave him a withering glare, but relented. “I did have something else to request. We don't know a lot about Valmore himself or your relationship to him. We would like for you to report as much as you can recall to us - apart from intimate details, of course.” Deshival let out a strangled noise. “We need more information on Valmore, but we don't wish to invade your privacy any more than necessary.” 

“I- what- no.”

“Deshival-” Arvain began, but Deshival cut him off. 

“No!” Deshival cried. “I told Magus no for a reason! I don't want to fucking think about Valmore, let alone talk about him! There's no good reason for you to make me, either, he's _dead_. What could you possibly need to know?”

Arla and Arvain exchanged looks.

“Deshival, I understand it seems to be a… touchy subject, but please,” Arla said gently. Deshival shook his head.

“There are things you don't need to know,” Arvain said, crossing his arms. “I promise you, we _do_ need to know. If you don't want to talk, you can write it down while you travel with Syf; she can send it back to us.”

Deshival curled a lip. “What don't you understand about _no_? I. Am. Not. Talking.”

“You're a prisoner, Deshival, you think you have a choice?”

“Oh, what are you going to do, Zone of Truth me? It doesn't make me talk! I don't have to answer anything I don't want to!”

Arvain opened his mouth to argue, but Arla raised a hand to stop him. “It's alright. This isn't part of his sentence, I’m not going to force him to answer. I do hope he’ll change his mind, however,” she said as she looked up at Deshival.

“ _He_ is unlikely to,” Deshival growled. 

Arvain narrowed his eyes, but Syf chose that moment to walk in.

“Oh, great, you couldn't bring someone else to strongarm Fangs with, Arla? The last thing we need is these two idiots’ lover’s spats.”

“We’re not lovers,” Deshival snarled. Arla and Arvain flinched back from the venom in his voice, but Syf just rolled her eyes.

“Learn to take a fucking joke, Fangs. I hope you two are done with him, we’ve got shit to do and I'm not gonna be happy if these preparations were a waste of my time.”

“Ah, no, we are finished here. Thank you, Syf.” Arla nodded to both of them as she left, Arvain trailing behind her. 

Syf wheeled on Deshival, arching a brow. “If you're done digging your hole with Arvain, your carriage awaits.” He gave her a despairing look, but decided it was better not to argue; she led him out of the keep.

* * *

Traveling with Syf was… different. One of the first things she did that morning was hand him a blood pack. When Deshival protested he'd eaten last night - twice, no less - Syf had fixed him with a look.

“Arvain may not know shit about vampires, but I do. You're not eating enough, Fangs, and you're going to fix that if I have to shove the damn blood down your throat myself.”

Deshival had taken the blood without another word. Syf made him feed three times a day, even seeking him out during construction to throw a blood ration at him. It was the most uncaring care he’d ever encountered, and while it was baffling to him at first, Deshival found himself growing to appreciate Syf. There was an odd sort of comfort in her blunt attitude that put him at ease. 

And so they worked. Syf had brought two necromentals this time, Pascal from before and now Ruby, who had more of a reddish hue than Pascal. She chose a much larger project than Arvain had taken him on, and Deshival wondered if it had been a trial run more than anything; regardless, the construction dragged out over the next month. Kumar occasionally visited, and on the days that he was there Syf banned Deshival from the wagon. He gladly obeyed, not particularly interested in interrupting the pair. 

As he worked, Deshival found himself strangely content. For the first time in a long time, it felt like he had a purpose besides destruction and ruin. It was… nice.


	7. Chapter 7

Deshival stared numbly into the mirror. His eyes… his eyes were different. Gold stared back at him, and he dimly considered that the pale blues Arvain had loved so much years ago were gone forever. 

Valmore swept in behind him, and his eyes crinkled as he smiled at Deshival’s reflection. Curling a hand around the smaller vampire’s throat, he tilted Deshival’s face back so that the light caught on his eyes and fangs.

“How beautiful you are, now,” Valmore murmured into Deshival’s ear. 

You said I was beautiful before, Deshival thought. Am I only as attractive as I let you mold me? He said nothing, as Valmore pulled back.

“Your troops await, general,” he grinned, before sweeping back out of the room, taking Deshival’s hesitation with him. 

As Deshival put on a cold expression and followed his husband out, he wondered how long it would take before every part of him Arvain had loved was gone. 

He wondered if it would still hurt when they were gone.

* * *

Deshival woke with a gasp, clawing at the blankets entangling him. He threw himself out of bed, prepared to run-

“The fuck are you doing, Fangs?”

Syf’s voice cut through his panicked haze, and he paused, looking around. He was in a wagon. The wagon. Syf was sitting up in a bedroll, glaring at him. If he listened, he could hear the sounds of Pascal and Ruby working in the distance. It was just a dream; he began to relax.

“You gonna say anything or just stand there?”

“I… sorry.” He slowly returned to his bedroll. “Bad dream.”

Syf sighed. “Do you want to talk about it?” Deshival’s head flew up to stare at her, and she rolled her eyes. “Don't get me wrong, I don't care, but apparently the rest have been worried or some shit and Kumar says I'm to _try_ to be empathetic. Or something.” 

Ah. This again. “So you're to report back to them if I confide in you, then?” he asked bitterly.

“Oh definitely not. Well. Okay, maybe I'm supposed to, but fuck, Fangs, your issues are your issues, I don't give a fuck how nosey Arla’s being. Talk or sleep, and make it soon - some of us aren't undying and need their sleep.” 

Deshival hesitated. As Syf laid back down, though, he spoke up. “I dreamed I was back with Valmore. Back… back when he turned me. Right before the war.”

She grunted. “Fucked up. Why’d that make you run like a scared rabbit?”

“I… it’s complicated.” 

Syf shrugged and rolled over. 

“Okay, it's not _that_ complicated. He was… a terrible person.”

“So were you, sunshine.”

“Yes, I know. Valmore… I never held a candle to him. He brought out the worst in me, like it was some kind of game. And… and I willingly played along.” 

Syf was silent.

“...I think he’s the one who got Danny killed.” 

“Alright, you’ve mentioned him twice now. Who the hell is Danny? Did you have another kid with the fucker?”

Deshival recoiled. “Absolutely not. I… I made Danny. He was the best of my creations. In theory, he’d be able to grow and learn like a person, but…” He took a breath. “He got loose. He wandered into a village, and all they saw was a monster. They tore him to pieces and I… I just…” A pause. “I wanted them to suffer. Valmore was there when I got the news and I gave in. I asked for him to turn me. This… I asked for all of this.”

They were both silent. Deshival assumed Syf had fallen asleep already, and was startled when she spoke. “So you think he got your thing killed, to make you angry. Fucked up. ‘Course, you're pretty fucked up too, who goes to war with a continent because of one village?”

“A monster,” he muttered bitterly.


	8. Chapter 8

It became almost routine. Every few nights, Deshival would relive something else from his time with Valmore, it would wake Syf up, and they'd talk a bit.

* * *

“He laughed in my face for wanting to make a support system for the war orphans.” 

“You weren't doing that on purpose?” 

“No, I just… I wasn't willing to kill children. I didn't mean to… it doesn't matter.”

* * *

“I did whatever he asked. Grew out my hair, wore what he wanted. By the end of it, I think the only thing I had that was mine was this locket.” 

“I mean, you've got yourself.” 

“I was a glorified pet, Syf. I was exactly what he made me, and nothing more.”

* * *

“He told me he stopped the others from killing children, after I found their corpses in our materials and confronted him. I believed him then, but I think I've known for a while now he’s always lied to me. I was fine being complacent, I guess.” 

“Gross.” 

“Yeah. I know.” 

“Both of you. Just being sure.” 

“Yes. I agree with you.”

* * *

“Your marriage was in a burning village? What the fuck?” 

“I think he thought it was romantic, in some twisted way. Killing Danny’s murderers for me. It just made me feel hollow.”

* * *

“Your whole thing was pretty fucked up. Didn't you have anything good with that creep?” 

“...I guess early on he was nice. Courted me, and all. And he made sure to mix affection with orders. But it was just to keep me in line; I was a toy, then a tool. I might be a fool, but I'm not an idiot. Love was never part of it.”

* * *

“So here’s what I'm curious about. Fuck you for that, by the way. Arvain said the two of you started falling out way back before he left, but you've been all ‘ohhhh Arvain’ and ‘awwww pining’ for years since. What the hell happened?” 

“...The truth is, I realized I wasn't good enough for him, but I couldn't bear to tell him. So I didn't.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“No, really, I… you can't tell anyone this, I really don't want anyone else to know. ...I tried to become a cleric, once. Arvain became a priest with ease, Pelor loved his golden son. But me? No one wanted me; I even tried some of the demon lords. I couldn't tell him. What kind of husband was I for a priest, so utterly unholy? I couldn't stand it, but I couldn't stand the thought of leaving more. And then the necromancy made him leave…” 

“Man, you two really need to talk it out.” 

“No. He's better without me. It was bad enough before, but now I'm a monster and a walking corpse. It’s better this way.”

* * *

Traveling from construction site to construction site, Deshival pressed on. Before he knew it, it was winter; Syf turned the cart back to the keep, and he tried not to dread the return.


	9. Chapter 9

Returning to the keep was less eventful than Deshival expected; it seemed everyone was busy, and so he ran into very few of the Chain. Syf disappeared almost immediately on their arrival, no doubt to look for Kumar, and only Magus had been around to greet them. The two made eye contact and nodded awkwardly, both silently deciding to avoid the other. 

Syf returned the next morning to show Deshival where they kept his blood stores, and told him to “take care of it yourself, Fangs, I've got better shit to do than play nursemaid.” He spent most of that day sitting on his bed, twiddling his thumbs, before deciding to look for Syf’s room in the hopes of something to do. 

One pass of the hallway told him that none of the doors were labeled. He attempted a second, sniffing at the air for a trace of Syf’s scent, but halfway down the hallway he suddenly started sneezing - strong perfume was wafting from Arvain’s door, and he couldn't scent the air without another sneezing fit. Giving up, he headed downstairs to see if anyone was having dinner.

It seemed Arla was having some kind of stew, and she seemed surprised to see him. He waved awkwardly and approached the table, ignoring Magus’s glare as the other man (boy?) entered the room.

“I was, ah, hoping to find Syf’s room,” he started, biting his lip. Arla took a bite of stew and waited. “...I find I am bored, with nothing to do. I was told with winter approaching, I wouldn't have any construction projects, but I was hoping she would have a solution. I, ah, tried to figure out which room it was on my own, but someone’s got a strong perfume…”

Arla nodded. “Yes, that would be Arvain’s friend, Sir Francis. He’s, ah, enthusiastic about his scents, you could say.” She took another bite of stew as Deshival carefully kept his face neutral. “If you don't mind waiting until I’ve finished, I'd be happy to show you to Syf’s room, as well as give you a tour of the keep. It wouldn't do for you to get lost because Syf didn't find it worth her time.” She sighed.

“Ah, yes. I would be, uh, very grateful.” Deshival pulled out a chair and gingerly sat in it, avoiding Magus’s continued glaring. 

After an awkward pause, Arla spoke up. “Do you have any hobbies, Deshival?” 

“H… hobbies?”

“Yes, you know, things you like doing to pass the time. I know you didn't go out to field often, you must have had something you did to pass the time?”

I mostly stared at walls and imagined my dead children and ex-husband, he thought wryly. He couldn't say that, though. “...No, not particularly.”

She and Magus both stared at him. 

“Nothing? Did you just… do paperwork or something?” Magus wrinkled his nose at the thought. 

“No, I… I just didn't do much of anything.”

“That… sounds unpleasant.” Arla gave him a pitying look, and he shifted awkwardly in his seat. 

“Yes. Um. I would like to not do that.” It would be awkward to think about my ex-husband when he's in the same keep and hates me, Deshival mentally added. Out loud, he said, “Is there… a hobby I could perhaps learn?” Arla hummed, thinking, and he hastily added, “Of course, nothing that would be a hassle or drain on your resources. Something… simple. Or useful.”

“You're weirdly obsessed with being useful for a bloodthirsty war criminal,” Magus commented dryly. Arla shot him a disapproving look.

Deshival fidgeted some more, unsure of how to respond. “I… I don't know what else to do? I should have died at least twice by now, it would've been justified, but… I'm still here. For now.”

Magus raised an eyebrow. “You know we’re not going to just off you when your job’s done, right?” 

“...I’ll still be a vampire, and the Forsaken, and a war criminal with far too much blood on my hands. I don't know why you wouldn't.” 

“That's not how we do things here,” Arla said quietly. “Arvain worked hard to see that you lived through the war, and we supported him.”

“I'm sure he regrets that now,” Deshival muttered; Arla and Magus exchanged looks, and fell silent.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much awkwardness.

One bowl of stew and awkward silence later, Arla began showing Deshival around the keep as promised. Less expected was Magus’s company; Deshival had kinda assumed he’d prefer to leave immediately, given how well the two of them had been getting along. Instead, he stuck around and provided occasional commentary on the rooms and other members of the Chain. The tour finally ended in a hallway with a single, locked door. 

“My office,” Arla said. “No one is allowed inside without me.” Deshival nodded; as the Chain’s spymaster, this made sense. He had done similar. There was no stopping Valmore from doing what he wanted, of course, but no one else had been permitted in his offices. 

“I believe that’s everything… you know where everyone’s rooms are now, though I think Syf is busy today. Did you want help coming up with-”

“I’ve got it.” 

Arla gave Magus a disbelieving look, and he shrugged. She turned her gaze on Deshival, eyes narrowing, and the vampire put his hands up in surrender. Like he was going to be picking a fight at this point, anyways, for fuck’s sake - and Magus had started it anyways last spring. Arla seemed to relent, and swept off down the hall with one last threatening look at Deshival.

The two stood awkwardly in silence for a few moments.

“Was… was there something you were-”

“Yeah, uh. Come with me, I’ve got something for you.” Magus started moving, and Deshival hesitantly followed.

“Can I ask what kind of something?”

“...No.”

“...Alright then.”

They took a hallway and some staircases, and were cutting across the main hall when the doors to the keep opened. Surprised, Deshival paused to look - and there were two someones. Arvain, radiant as always, was talking and laughing with… someone he didn’t recognize. Though as they drew closer, the overpowering scent of perfume crept over him and he had to resist the urge to sneeze; perhaps this was-

“Oh, it’s you again,” Magus said.

Arvain and his companion looked up, startled; Arvain frowned slightly at Magus. Deshival lost the battle with his sinuses and sneezed loudly, drawing a deeper frown from the paladin.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Ah, hello! I don’t think we’ve met!” The man held out a hand enthusiastically. “I am Sir Francis, Arvain’s companion- what is your name, good sir?” 

Deshival weighed the rudeness of not shaking his hand and the likelihood of the perfume clinging to him if he took it, and decided to opt for a tight-lipped smile instead. He ignored Arvain mouthing his name in disapproval. “My name is Deshival.”

“Ah, Deshival Oniran! I’ve heard of you, of course-” 

Deshival flinched. “No. That- no. I… my surname is Durant. Deshival Durant. I’m not… with Valmore anymore.” He decided not to try interpreting the expression Arvain made when he’d used his maiden name- surely the man wasn’t expecting Deshival to use his still, after everything?

Francis cocked his head to one side. “I see. Trying to leave the past in the past, I respect it, of course. That is, of course, where it belongs.” He gave a wide smile, and looped his arm through Arvain’s. “Shall we, dear?”

Arvain made a face, but nodded and began to escort the knight. They passed by Deshival, who sneezed again and sidled closer to Magus.

“I feel like I’ve just been insulted in some way, and I’m not sure how,” he grumbled. “Must he wear so much perfume? It feels like my nose is going to fall off.” 

Magus shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. I don’t think vampires tend to have parts fall off, though… do you get nosebleeds? Is that a thing?”

“I- Yes, though I don’t know if scents can do it.” He sneezed again and sighed despairingly. “Can we- where are we going, can we keep going? His perfume just lingers everywhere, you’d think it was an enchantment.” 

“You’re being a baby, but whatever, yeah.” He started walking again, and Deshival hurried after him.

They headed down another staircase into the basement, and Magus stopped before a large oak door. Pulling a key from his pocket, he silently unlocked the door and pushed it open, beckoning Deshival in. The vampire cautiously followed him, looking around, and was surprised to see a mostly open space; a couch in one corner, weights and various equipment in the others. Magus walked over to the couch and reached into a wicker basket nearby, before chucking something at Deshival.

Startled, he caught it on reflex - it was softer and lighter than he expected. Turning it over in his hands, he realized it was a ball of yarn, bright yellow and fluffy. He looked up at Magus in confusion, only to find the man had brought two long, silver implements to him. He stared at them, and then stared at Magus.

“Here,” he said, waving them at Deshival impatiently. “Before I change my mind.” 

Deshival gingerly took them from him. “What… are these?”

“...Knitting needles. You knit with them.” He gestured at the yarn. Deshival blinked, staring at the yarn and needles in his hand, until Magus sighed. “Okay, here, I’ll show you how to… come over here, sit down.”

Magus pulled out another pair of needles and ball of yarn, pink this time, as Deshival watched. “Why do you have so many needles?” he asked, perplexed.

“Different sizes for different yarns,” Magus grumbled. “Watch, I’m not showing you again.”

The next few hours were spent with Magus showing Deshival various stitches and ways to start and finish a craft. Deshival did his best, and Magus corrected where it was needed; he wasn’t really sure why Magus was going to this trouble, but he decided not to question it. Apparently, Magus had learned from Arla, and he mentioned that they had tea weekly and knitted together. Deshival wouldn’t hold his breath for an invite.

When Magus was finally satisfied with Deshival’s progress, he stood up and made for the door. Deshival followed suit. “Let me know if you run out of yarn,” he grumbled, before shoving some papers into Deshival’s chest and pushing him out the door. It locked audibly behind him, and he took a moment to look at the papers, bewildered. It seemed to be a… a pattern, Magus had called them. Socks, perhaps? He rearranged his armful and trotted in the direction of his room. It seemed he would be spending the rest of his day knitting.

* * *

He spent the rest of the next few weeks knitting, as it turned out. It took him the better part of a day to puzzle out how to read the sock pattern, and another few days to make any satisfactory progress; Deshival spent most of his time knitting a few rounds, and then immediately growling in frustration and undoing all of his work. 

Eventually, he managed to make a pair of perfect yellow socks - but they were missing something. Too plain. He went to Magus, and the eldritch knight reluctantly showed him how to switch colors, giving him another ball of yarn; Deshival requested orange this time. It took the better part of a week, but he finally was satisfied with what he’d made.

Now, of course, he had to figure out how to deliver them. 

Arvain (because of course they were for Arvain) was in and out of the keep constantly, and any time Deshival could find him, he also was with Sir Francis. Arvain would sometimes notice Deshival lurking and wave him over, but Deshival just smiled or waved and ducked out of the room. He didn’t want to interrupt.

He’d considered waiting until evening or nighttime and knocking on Arvain’s door, but with the way that Francis’s perfume lingered in the hall he couldn’t tell if Arvain was alone. If Francis was staying overnight, Deshival frankly didn’t want to know about it. It seemed that he was going to have to find some other way to give Arvain his present.

He asked Syf one morning, catching her in the hall as she got up. “What - did you even sleep, Fangs? Sun isn’t even up yet, hells. No, I’m not going to play postman for you, grow a spine and give it to him yourself.”

Magus and Arla were the only other members he’d spent much time around, and he wasn’t really sure he wanted to ask Arla. Something about the spymaster put him off; he wasn’t sure if it had to do with her being a cleric, or if he was just used to the idea of her as an opponent he had to outwit. Either way, he wasn’t going to ask her and Magus had also refused (before Deshival could even ask properly, to boot), and so he was left to figure the delivery out himself.

This was how he found himself standing outside Arvain’s door in the middle of the night, shifting from foot to foot and wondering if he should just leave it on the ground. Logically, he knew it would be safe if he did, but years of living with Valmore had ingrained the idea that he couldn’t trust anything to be left alone, so he was loathe to just put it down and walk away… but otherwise he’d have to give it to Arvain in front of Sir Francis, probably while sneezing-

And then he sneezed. Loudly.

He could hear footsteps inside Arvain’s room, and he turned to flee - but then the door swung open, and Arvain was leaning in the doorway, shirtless and blinking at him blearily.

“Dess? Why are you up so late?”

Deshival froze, panicking. He smiled - too wide, too wide! He stopped smiling. Fuck. He felt like he was in his twenties again, trying to figure out how to go say hello to the pretty blonde boy at the spring festival. He shoved the parcel out in Arvain’s direction, fairly sure he was blushing and hoping it was too dark for Arvain to see.

“I uh. I m- I got you something.”

Arvain blinked again in surprise, and gingerly took the package. With a gesture, he cast Light on the doorway, and began to unwrap it. Deshival, unsure of what to do, glanced behind Arvain into the room; he exhaled quietly in relief to see that the bed was empty, then felt guilty. Surely Arvain deserved to move on-

“Oh, Dess, I love them- and they have little suns! Did you make these yourself?”

Definitely blushing now, he nodded, swallowing nervously. “I, um. Magus- Magus taught me. I thought - it seemed - you - yellow.” He winced. “I mean. I thought the yellow would… go well…”

Arvain smiled softly. “Thank you.”

Deshival, flustered, nodded again. “Sorry for waking you up,” he mumbled. “Glad, uh, glad you like them. Good night.” 

Arvain wished him good night in return, and he fled. Once back inside his room, he flopped down onto the bed with a sigh and threw an arm over his face. 

“I’m such an embarrassing fool,” he moaned. “‘Yellow’,” he mocked quietly to himself, “‘I thought the yellow would go well.’ Oh my gods Deshival. Just hand him the socks and go. They’re just socks.”

He laid there like that for a while, before removing the arm and staring up at the ceiling with a small small. 

“He liked them, though.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Valmore is the uncle of the current queen of Ismaire (Bladeholm is the capitol of Ismaire)

Deshival passed the rest of the winter trying new patterns. He copied them into his grimoire, not even remotely concerned that they weren’t spells; he wasn’t exactly looking to expand his repertoire there, anyways, and it was as good a place as any to keep them- no sense in wasting paper by getting another book. 

He began to make himself a scarf out of a deep blue yarn at one point, but wound up feeling self conscious and decided to repurpose it into mittens for Syf. She raised an eyebrow when he gave them to her, asking what he thought she was gonna do with kiddy gloves, Fangs? He stuck his tongue out and gave her the finger as he left, and she laughed; he saw her wearing them two days later during a snowball fight with Kumar outside his window and called it a success.

He did his best to come up with ideas for the rest of the Chain as well, though they were all less personal than Arvain’s socks. He just… didn’t know any of them that well, and he wasn’t sure if he should change that. It was easy to forget, with nothing to do during the winter, but he was still a prisoner, technically speaking. 

Soon, though, the snow began to melt, and winter gave way to spring. The annual spring festival was approaching, as well as the first anniversary of the assault on Bladeholm - and Deshival found himself getting antsy. He was both looking forward to having an assignment again, and also apprehensive about the public; this was probably the biggest time of year for “let’s kill the vampire who tried to burn our country down” sentiment. 

A few days before the festival, Syf butted into his room. “Yo, Fangs - got any formalwear?”

He blinked. “N… no?” She nodded, and made to leave. “Wait, Syf, why are you asking? What do I need formal clothes for?”

“The festival, duh. It’s being hosted at the castle this year; triumph over the Queen’s uncle, generosity of the crown, blah blah politics and posturing. The important part is free food and fancy digs, really. I… I did tell you you’re invited, right?” Deshival stared blankly at her and folded his arms. “Uh. Whoops. You’re invited! Yaaay free food. I’m gonna go get you a suit.” She vanished, not leaving him room to refuse. 

“...I can’t eat regular food,” he grumbled. 

* * *

He had to admit, it was a nice suit. Syf had picked a charcoal one with dark blue embroidery; it didn’t exactly match his eyes anymore, now that he was a vampire, but he enjoyed being able to pretend at least. He decided not to bother casting Invisibility on his locket for the festival; while he generally didn’t like it being visible, he was able to hide it beneath the high collar of his shirt, leaving only a hint of the chain visible. Good enough. 

The festival, on the other hand, was not so nice. Granted, he supposed it was very nice to anyone who liked crowds and decadence. The ballroom had been heavily decorated, with glittering streamers and baubles hanging from the ceiling and walls; the banquet tables held a feast off to the side of the room, and everyone on the floor seemed to shine with silver and gold jewelry and accessories. Deshival combed a hand through his hair on reflex, feeling very out of his element, and scanned the room - there, Syf in a corner, thank the gods he didn’t actually have to be social. He quickly sidled over to her.

“Oh, hey Fangs. Having fun?” She quirked an eyebrow at him as she sipped a glass of wine.

“No,” he whined. “There’s so many _people_ , how can you stand it? It’s so loud.”

She shrugged. “Not all of us have vampire senses, Fangs. Sorry, though.” A pause. “Oh, look, there’s Arvain - you should go say hello.”

He ignored her eyebrow wiggling, head whipping to look where she pointed - oh. Arvain was there, but he was also with Francis, as usual. The man was all smiles, draped over Arvain, and Deshival grimaced. 

“I think he’s a bit busy, I’ll pass.”

“Coward!” Syf crowed. “I’m sure he’d talk to you if you just tried!” 

Deshival rolled his eyes and shook his head at her.

“Well, you can keep playing chicken if you like, _I_ am going to go have some fun with Kumar.”

“As long as you’re not caught by the guards,” he snarked, and she laughed and stuck her tongue out as she left. Deshival turned his attention back to Arvain, sighing softly. Everything just kept coming back to him, it seemed, even though it was clear Arvain was moving on. He watched Arvain laugh at something Francis said, and cracked a small smile. Well, at least Arvain was happy… he could live with that.

Arvain’s gaze drifted in his direction, and Deshival froze as they made eye contact. Arvain made as though to stand, and Deshival immediately ducked into the crowd. Not _entirely_ sure why he was running, he weaved through the largest throngs of partiers, making his way to a balcony on the other side of the ballroom; finding it empty, he sighed in relief, leaning on a railing and taking a deep breath of the night air.

“...Deshival?”

Oh, hells. Arvain was persistent. He turned to Arvain and waited to see what the man wanted.

Arvain hesitated. “I was… surprised to see you here.”

Deshival narrowed his eyes. “Syf told me I was invited.”

“I - yes, but - I… I suppose I thought you wouldn’t come.” 

Deshival shrugged, wondering where he was going with this. Arvain shuffled slightly, uncertain; Deshival caught a whiff of Francis’s perfume, wrinkling his nose, and Arvain looked away. 

“Um. Have you… reconsidered Arla’s request from last spring?” he ventured.

Deshival growled under his breath. “I don’t know why you’re so set on this. No, I’m not interested in thinking about that man when I’m finally free of him. Gods’ sake.”

Arvain frowned. “I don’t understand; you talk about him like you hate him. Why did you choose him if you hate him so much?”

Something about the way Arvain phrased the question stung, and Deshival bared his fangs in an unkind smile. “Why do you care so much about it? Jealous he took your leftovers?”

Arvain took a step back, looking as though Deshival had slapped him. The smile slid off of the vampire’s face, but he didn’t have a chance to speak again.

“Why are you so determined to push us all away? Every time I talk to you, it’s like you’re trying to figure out how much you can hurt me. I don’t understand, we’ve all done our best to be friendly, and you just answer with… this. Is… is it me?” Arvain whispered.

“...It’s the act.” Arvain blinked. “The whole friendly routine is fucking unnecessary, Arvain, you don’t have to pretend. I’m pretty sure I’ve shown that I’m willing to work for the Chain regardless of how I’m treated; the fake friendship is almost insulting.”

“I… Deshival, it’s not an act-”

“And I’m not a monster,” he drawled, curling his lip to show off a fang. “I’ve heard it before. I was sick of Valmore’s fake shit, I don’t need more from you.”

Arvain stood there, staring at him like he was a puzzle to be worked out. Deshival sighed.

“Look, don’t you have a boyfriend to get back to? I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate being left alone for the pet war criminal who lives in your basement.”

Arvain’s brow furrowed. “You don’t live in the basement…?”

“That- that wasn’t the- never mind, just go back to your fucking boy toy, okay?” 

Deshival pushed past him, trying not to gag on the scent of Francis’s perfume, and began looking for Syf. He found her making out with Kumar near the bathrooms, and sighed. She put a hand over Kumar’s mouth and leaned back to scowl at Deshival. “What do you want?”

“I want to go back to the keep.” He glanced nervously at Kumar, but the firbolg seemed preoccupied. “Party’s boring.”

“Did you at least talk with Arvain?” 

“...We spoke.”

Syf rolled her eyes. “I’m busy, you’ll just have to wait. And kindly fuck off, we’re trying to have a moment here.”

Deshival muttered darkly about public indecency, and cast Greater Invisibility on himself out of reflex as he heard footsteps down the hall. Arvain rounded the corner a moment later.

“Syf! Have you seen Deshival? I need to-”

“Oh for the love of- I am _busy_ , Arvain!” She gestured at Kumar, who grinned and waved.

Deshival took the opportunity to slip away. He wandered around the castle grounds for a few minutes, growing more irritated by the minute and not sure why. Finally, he decided to quit pacing the halls and just go back by himself; after all, he was invisible, who was going to stop him?

He stalked back to the keep, blissfully alone and uninterrupted.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Deshival gets away from me and decides to (mostly) out himself to Arvain. This was supposed to be half as long as it is, but I prefer putting the next bit at the start of a chapter anyways so it works out.

Deshival was transcribing a quilt pattern with a blood pack between his teeth when there was a knock on his door. He stilled, listening - perhaps if he pretended he wasn’t there, they’d go away. He didn’t particularly feel like getting chewed out right now for coming home early.

“Dess- Deshival? Are you in there?”

He waited silently.

“I… Deshival, if you’re in there, please - I just want to talk.”

“We did.”

A beat. “I… well, can we talk again then?” Another pause. “...Please?”

Deshival considered saying no, but… he got up and crossed over to the door, silently drawing back the lock and opening it. Arvain almost fell over, catching himself on the doorway.

“Did… were you leaning on my door?” Deshival asked quizzically. He leaned in and sniffed, checking for alcohol, but all he got was a noseful of Francis; he sneezed and took a step back, covering his nose and waving Arvain into the room. 

“N-no, of course not.” He wandered in and gingerly sat on the bed; Deshival had a brief flashback to his first day at the keep. “Why do you keep wrinkling your nose at me? Am I that bad to look at?”

Deshival stared at him. “I… what? No, it’s your scent.” 

“...Are you saying I stink? I can bathe more-”

Arvain bathing was not what he needed to be thinking about right now. “No! It’s not- it’s not _your_ scent, Arvain, it’s Francis’s. I just really hate his perfume and it’s so strong, it gets on everything. And it makes me sneeze.” Almost as if to illustrate a point, he sneezed again. Deshival waved a hand in the air and muttered the incantation for Prestidigitation, clearing the air a bit.

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, or is it because you seem to think I hate you?”

Deshival shuffled in place by the door, and decided to close it before answering. “...I just… didn’t want to interrupt you two, that’s all. Though it’s true I don’t like being near him, and - why wouldn’t you hate me?”

Arvain sighed. “Sit with me?” He patted the bed next to him, and Deshival moved to sit after a brief moment of hesitation. “I don’t… I’m pretty sure I’m not able to hate you, Dess. Sure, I’ve been angry with you, but that’s not… that’s not the same thing.”

Deshival squinted. “I’m a war criminal who tried to conquer Ismaire, and my troops killed the last queen a year ago. I’m probably one of the main reasons Valmore got as far as he did, at least that quickly, and you’re saying you don’t hate me.”

“I mean, I’m upset about it, don’t get me wrong, but-”

“That’s also not counting the time you left me to die in an angry mob.” 

Arvain stared at him. “What?”

“When you left me for practicing necromancy. I chased after you trying to get you to stay, you didn’t hear our dear neighbors snarling for my head while you walked away?”

“They- what? No, I… I didn’t know. Fuck. I thought… I thought you just left.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You’d been clearly unhappy for months, Dess, when I saw you were with Valmore, I… I just thought…”

“I would _never_ have left you for someone else,” Deshival growled. “I only went to Valmore because I had no other options, he promised to protect me.”

“Not sure what part of protection means fucking the guy,” Arvain grumbled.

“The part where he’s a manipulative asshole and implied I had to show my gratitude,” Deshival snapped. “I did what I had to to survive, until it… turned personal.”

“What… is that the Danny thing you keep mentioning? Arla seemed to know what it was but she wouldn’t tell anyone, kept saying it wasn’t important.”

Deshival sighed. “It… yes. I… there’s a bit more to explain from before, too. I know you thought I was the necromancer robbing the village graves.” Arvain tentatively nodded. “That… was part of what I was trying to tell you; it wasn’t me. I know you follow Pelor’s tenants and he doesn’t approve anyways, but I only ever worked on animals. Until… until Danny.” 

“What changed?” Arvain murmured.

“Valmore, of course.” He sighed. “He got me some fancy implement and kept pestering me to use human corpses in my work. He finally figured out how to catch my attention, though.” Another sigh. “He… suggested I create an undead child.”

Arvain recoiled. “Like, animating a dead baby?”

“No, no nothing like that- it… the idea was to create something that could learn, grow; undead are resilient, immune to a lot of things, like… like disease…” He trailed off, and Arvain gently put an arm around him and pulled him in. Deshival leaned on his shoulder and took a breath before continuing. “It worked,” he said quietly. “I was teaching him fine motor skills, he’d learned a few words; couldn’t quite say my name yet.” A wet chuckle. “He got out of the safe house. I didn’t- I hadn’t- Valmore found him. That fucking- I’ve wondered if he’s the one who let him out in the first place. The… the village nearby had mobbed him. Tore him to pieces, there was nothing I could do to fix him. I… I tried so _hard_. He was _harmless_ , and they… _they took my baby from me_ , Arvain.” He let out an angry, choked sob, and Arvain pulled him into a hug. 

Arvain held him like that for a while, until Deshival had managed to calm himself down. “I won’t pretend to understand the way you think of them like children,” Arvain said quietly, still holding onto him. “But I do know you, and I know what that means to you. I’m so sorry, Dess.”

They sat together like that for a few moments, before Arvain spoke again.

“I wanted to apologize for calling you a monster. Back… back when that happened with Magus.”

“But I _am_ a monster,” Deshival mumbled into Arvain’s collar. “I’ve got a resumé to prove it, too.”

Arvain sighed. “You’re not… you’re not a monster, Deshival. I’m not saying what you did was right, but… we all can tell you feel guilty about it. You’ve done a lot more than any of us really thought you would with the restoration, too. You’re only a man, Deshival.” He gently pushed Deshival away so that he could look at him face to face. “You’ve had to deal with so much more than I could’ve imagined, Dess, and even if I don’t agree with what you did, there’s only so much a man can take. You’re not a monster for having limits on how much grief you can handle.”

Deshival felt himself tearing up again, and angrily scrubbed his eyes with a hand. “If I wasn’t a monster, I wouldn’t have agreed to lead a war for the sake of some rabid dog’s revenge, let alone caused as much devastation as I could in the process. And the restoration project doesn’t count, I’m just doing what I’m told.”

Arvain sighed and pulled Deshival back into him. “Yeah, I’m not disagreeing that was a kind of fucked up choice, but there’s a difference between enjoying it and realizing it was fucked, and you clearly didn’t enjoy it. Dess, you realize we thought the list Syf had would last you three to five years, right? You finished it in less than one, and half of the spells you modified to do it so quickly are being studied by the academy here to figure out how you did it. Not only did you fix some of the major towns and villages you destroyed, you literally revolutionized construction in Ismaire. Possibly beyond, eventually. That’s… a hell of a lot more than we asked.”

Deshival didn’t say anything. He hadn’t realized he wasn’t expected to do that; he supposed that the Chain never said anything about making the process more efficient, but he’d assumed at the time that Syf had given him such annoyingly time and energy consuming spells to work with to fuck with him. 

“There was one… other thing.” Arvain sounded reluctant now. “There’s something I need to… look, about Francis, and me, we’re-”

He cut off suddenly, and Deshival pulled back. Arvain put a hand to his earring; “Yeah, I’m upstairs- got it. Fuck. I’ll be right there. Give me a s- yeah, yeah, okay, I got it, on my way.” He sighed, and looked at Deshival. “Sorry, I know this is really bad timing, but the Chain’s called an urgent meeting. Can we- I really want to finish this later, okay?” 

Deshival nodded hesitantly, and Arvain gave him a quick smile before rushing out the door. He wondered what kind of problem could be so urgent in peacetime.


	13. Chapter 13

Bladeholm’s gates hung from their hinges, as terrors of all shapes and sizes crawled over the walls. The Chain stood in a line before him, blocking the way; Arvain was standing in front of them, pleading with him. His mouth was moving, but made no sound - all the Forsaken could hear was Valmore’s poisoned whispers, as the older vampire’s phantom hand caressed his throat. 

_You will ride to Ismaire and crush the Chain, and you will return to me with my sister’s head_

_I will be waiting for you_

Deshival tried to hear Arvain through the noise-

_I will be waiting for you_

The Forsaken summoned a blade of ice to his hand with a crackle of arcane energy; he raised the blade. 

_You will ride to Ismaire_

No, this isn’t how it went - this isn’t -

**_Crush the Chain_ **

The dagger flew.

* * *

Deshival woke with a low, familiar chuckle in his head, and shook himself impatiently. Bladeholm nightmares were always the worst ones, he thought grumpily as he dressed. Fucking Valmore, not leaving him alone even in death. 

Padding down the halls, he stopped in front of Syf’s door and smacked it once. He heard her groan from inside.

“Faaaaangs it’s so _early_ , what do you waaaant”

“The sun is up, I thought I was supposed to be the one sleeping all day.”

Another long groan, and he waited. There was some shuffling from inside, and Syf finally opened the door. Dressed in what was clearly Kumar’s shirt and nothing else, she glowered at him. “What.”

“When can I get another task?”

Syf’s face went through several emotions in quick succession, before settling on confusion. “You woke me up to do construction? Are you nuts?”

“Look, it’s been a month since the snow melted, and I’m getting tired of being cooped up in the keep. Arvain said we finished your list from before, but surely there’s more to do? I wasn’t exactly careful with my invasion.” 

She stared at him for a moment. “...I…will look into it.”

“Thank you.”

She shut the door in his face, leaving him to figure out what to do with himself in the meantime; he decided to start working on that quilt pattern he’d just finished copying. Surely that would keep him busy enough that his memories couldn’t catch up with him.

* * *

Weeks slowly passed, without Syf giving him anything to do. The keep was quieter than usual, and he found that most of the Chain members were out more often than not. He hadn’t seen Arvain or Arla in a while, and several times when he went to borrow more yarn from Magus the man wasn’t anywhere to be found.

He did his best to shake off the feeling that he was being left out of something; whatever was going on, it definitely wasn’t construction, and therefore not his job. Of course he wouldn’t be told. He just… had to keep busy and try not to think about it. Or his nightmares. Or Valmore.

Deshival found he did miss most of the Chain, though. He’d gotten used to nodding to Arla in the halls, bothering Magus about knitting… Arvain needed no explanation, that was nothing new. He briefly considered trying to sneak into their rooms, just to have their scents around, but quickly decided that was just too strange. (Besides, Arvain’s room would just smell like Francis.)

More weeks passed, and Arla returned. Deshival pretended he was just accidentally passing her in the halls three times a day, avoiding eye contact for the most part and acting aloof. She just shook her head with a smile as she caught on, and Deshival absolutely didn’t flush red. That would be ridiculous.

On the third day, though, Arla stopped him in the hall. “Deshival, do you… would you like to talk about your time with Valmore?”

His mood instantly soured. Scowling, he started to say, “I told you-”

“No, no, I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I phrased that poorly. I’ve looked over some of your old reports, and Syf told us there wasn’t any reason to press you - don’t give me that look, she didn’t say anything specific and I didn’t ask - so that’s not why I’m asking. I’m just… I worry about you, I suppose.”

Deshival blinked, caught off-guard.

Arla hesitated, but when he didn’t say anything she continued. “She did mention you had nightmares, and given some of what I’m piecing together, I just - if you need someone to talk to, let me know, alright?”

“I- thank y- I appreciate it, but I’m fine.” 

She peered up at him, scrutinizing his face. “You haven’t been having them lately? It does help to talk about them, you know.” 

“No, I’ve been sleeping fine,” he lied. The idea of letting himself think about it long enough to _tell_ someone… No. He would just go back to his knitting. It was fine.

* * *

He slowly walked through the streets of Bladeholm. Around him, the buildings lied in ruin: rubble and fire as far as he could see, dog-like terrors rooting around for survivors. He passed Arla’s twisted form, and heard that familiar voice, like poisoned honey.

_Pathetic girl._

Onward he marched, moving past each member of the Chain in turn. Their bodies laid broken and battered, marking his path. Slowly, so slowly, he reached the last one, and kneeled to take him into his arms.

Arvain stared up at him, motionless; dried blood crept down his ex-lover’s chin, and he looked over with distant surprise to find Arvain’s heart in his hand.

_This was always what you were meant for._

A tear ran down his cheek, startling him.

_Oh, pet. There there. I will be waiting._

_Always._

* * *

Deshival lurched out of bed. Nauseous, he pulled his curtains aside to peer out the window; midnight, it seemed. Well, he wasn’t going to be going back to sleep anytime soon after that - maybe a snack would help drive the image of Arvain out of his head. 

He padded silently through the keep. Making short work of a blood pack, he still felt restless. Perhaps a patrol of the keep? Obviously it was safe - this was the Chain’s keep, in _Bladeholm_ , during peacetime, but. After that last nightmare, it might ease his nerves a bit to make _sure_. 

He methodically made his way through the keep, silently gliding down each hallway. It seemed most of the Chain was home, he noted; their scents were all refreshed as he passed by their doors, except for Arvain’s - but as expected, Francis’s perfume was more recent than before. He hummed, holding his nose so he didn’t sneeze, thinking. Arvain never did get a chance to tell him the rest of whatever he’d been saying. Deshival wondered why Arvain thought it was so important to tell him he’d moved on, unless…

His thoughts were interrupted by the quiet sound of papers falling. Frowning, he moved silently towards the source - this was Arla’s hallway, the only person who should be doing anything here was her, but… he had to suppress a low growl as he saw her office door ajar. No light fell from the doorway, and he carefully pushed the door open.

Francis flipped through a report, muttering to himself before pushing it aside and letting it fall to join a multitude of scattered papers on the floor. He reached for a journal on one of the shelves built into the wall, and Deshival grabbed the knight’s shoulder. Hauling him out of the room, he bodily slammed the man into a wall and snarled in his face. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Francis smiled jauntily. “Ah, Valmore’s pet has come out to play! And how is the kept monster doing this evening?”

“Cut the bullshit,” he growled, baring fangs and pushing him harder into the wall. “What are you doing in Arla’s office? Stealing intelligence? I swear, if you’ve been using Arvain-”

“Oh my, it seems to be jealous. You do realize you’re nothing but a project to him, yes? Arvain is far too good a man to ever love something so… bloody.” A wider grin.

“You’ve mistaken me for someone who _cares_ ,” Deshival snarled. “The _only_ thing that matters is-”

“Yes, yes, you think you can protect him with your little socks and yarn.” Francis sighed and rolled his eyes. “Really, dearest, haven’t you learned yet? You’re useless on your own.”

“You-!”

Suddenly, an arm was around his waist, and Deshival was dragged off of Francis. Vildris and Arla began checking the knight over, as Arvain held Deshival away from him. 

“What are you doing?” He hissed at Deshival, and a slow panic crept into his chest at the prospect of asking Arvain to believe him over Francis.

“I…”

“Surely it’s obvious? I caught him breaking into dear Arla’s office, and he didn’t take kindly to it. Shame, really, I was beginning to believe he’d actually been broken in-”

“Don’t you talk about him like that,” Arvain snarled. 

“Really, Arvain, you’re too trusting. You’re going to wake up one day with his fangs in your neck.” Francis tutted. 

Arvain opened his mouth, expression murderous, but Arla held up a hand. “And why, exactly, would Deshival break into my office? Serving an old master?”

“Valmore’s _dead_ ,” Deshival mumbled, panic turning to confusion as Arla and Arvain came to his defense. 

She waved in Deshival’s direction, as if to say “see?” “He has no motive, and I’m certain that if he _did_ he wouldn’t be caught by a low-ranking knight. The question being - what motive do _you_ have, Sir Francis?”

The man spluttered, and Arvain again opened his mouth- but Arla interrupted him once more. “Arvain, why don’t you see Deshival back to his room? We can speak with both of them further in the morning.” 

Deshival opened his mouth to protest, but Arvain gently pulled him down the hallway. Silently, they walked back to his room; Arvain waited as he closed the door, and with a sinking feeling he heard the bolt slide home for the first time in a year. There was a murmured apology from the other side, but Deshival just stared helplessly at the door. He replayed the evening in his head, questioning each decision. 

Maybe his dreams were right and he wasn’t cut out for this.


	14. Chapter 14

Deshival didn’t sleep. He tried, but wound up pacing restlessly in his room, feeling uncertain and trapped. He threw his curtains back, eager for some way to track the time; once the sun came up, Deshival closed them partway to avoid burning himself, but he perched on his bed and watched the light travel across his floor like a hawk.

Around noon, there was a knock on his door. Head flying up, he watched with wide eyes as Syf let herself in. She raised an eyebrow and tossed him a blood pack.

“Doing alright there, Fangs? You’re looking a little wild.”

He almost told her he was fine, but decided maybe this wasn’t the time to be lying for the sake of his pride. “No. I feel… a little wild, I guess.” He sank his teeth into the pack and began to drink, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, uh, you’re acting kinda weird. Did something happen?” He lifted his head to answer, and she hastily added, “Besides beating the shit out of Francis, I mean. I don’t know that I blame you, he’s an annoying fucker sometimes, but you really did a number on him.”

He stared, blood forgotten. “What are you talking about? I only shoved him into a wall.”

She raised both eyebrows. “That’s not what it looked like, Fangs. Have you seen him? His whole shoulder and back are a mass of bruises, he’s been whining about it all morning. Arvain took him to see his healer, wouldn’t shut up about _ohhhh_ he’s got his _personal_ healer, can’t let anyone else touch him, wahh. God he’s annoying.”

Deshival finished off the blood, heart sinking, and Syf tossed him a second one. “I… I really did just push him into a wall, Syf. He was in Arla’s office, I was trying to figure out what he was doing there.”

“...Vildris said you were all fangs and ready to rip his face off, Fangs. You sure there’s nothing else that’s got you on edge lately?”

Deshival sighed, and drank from the pack. Syf pulled his desk chair out and sat, waiting.

“...Did you ever find me something to work on?” 

She blinked. “Really? That’s what you want to talk about right now?”

“I just… I’ve been feeling so restless, cooped up with nothing to do, and now… Arla seemed to believe I didn’t get into her office, but with Francis being that injured…” 

“Yeah. I see what you mean.” She sighed. “I’ll… set something up - start packing. Give me a few hours, okay? I probably shouldn’t let you loose right now, but I know you didn’t get into her shit. Pretty sure you’d have done it when we were all out, not waited for the whole gang to be home. You can be stupid sometimes but you’re not, like, _stupid_ stupid.”

“Thanks, Syf,” he said dryly, and she mock saluted him as she got up and started out the door.

The bolt slid closed again, and he tried to focus on his meal instead of the itch beneath his skin.

* * *

True to her word, Syf reappeared at his door two hours later with a small bundle. Wordlessly, she grabbed him by the arm and hauled him up, pulling him through the halls. He’d donned a cloak while waiting, and pulled up the hood as they stepped into the sunlight towards the wagon. He frowned; it seemed bigger than he recalled, but it _had_ been months.

“Here.” Syf shoved her armful at him unceremoniously. “There’s a map, some basic information. Stick to the roads I marked, don’t detour. The belt. Make sure to wear the amulet, it’ll mark you as one of ours, just in case.”

“I- wait, are you not coming?”

“Busy. You’ll be fine. Just come back if you need something. Now get going before someone figures out I’m helping you out and calls me soft.” She scowled as Deshival clambered into the wagon, but waved him off as he started down the road.

He glanced at the map briefly, and was pleased to see that she’d marked quite a few locations; this should keep him busy for at least a few months.

A week of travel later, he arrived at his destination and hopped into the cart. More cages, he noted, and he began to open them. Pascal, Ruby… another golem, this one with two heads, named Janus. He opened two of the smaller cages, finding to his delight that they held flesh terrors. He kneeled to let Oscar and Amelia lick his face, and laughed for the first time in what felt like years. 

“Alright, kiddos,” he said, standing. “Time to get to work!”

* * *

Several repaired villages later, Deshival was in high spirits. With more helpers, he could complete repairs even faster; it meant he had more to do to keep up the supply chain, forming more blocks of stone and roofing materials, but that just meant he had less time to be distracted by memories and nightmares. 

Partway into rebuilding the third town, though, he noticed that the area had grown silent apart from the thuds of his golems moving around. Deshival frowned, and began to move slowly through the deserted village, scanning the surrounding area. 

A twig snapped in the underbrush.

Deshival whirled around to look, and yelped as he had to dive to avoid a gnoll lunging for him. He _pulled_ on the tethers of his creations, and they came running to him as he began to cast spells to thin the growing pack of gnolls coming from the woods. 

He used his golems as a defensive line for himself, ducking behind Pascal between hurling rays of ice into the fray. Quickly, however, he noticed that the thinning crowd of enemies wasn’t _just_ gnolls - skeletons and undead gnolls and hyenas were mixed in as well, sending a chill down his spine. Who was animating these?

Between his golems scattering enemies and the flesh terrors making quick work of their victims, Deshival was relieved to see the hoard of demons and undead dwindle down to nothing. There were only three skeletons left when a crashing echoed from the trees, and Deshival took a deep breath when he saw what came out: a flesh terror. And not just _any_ kind of flesh terror…

...He knew that design. Intimately.

With a snarl, he ordered his own terrors and golems into the fray once more. He silently instructed his terrors on how to most efficiently disable their newest foe, and frowned, thinking. That was absolutely one of his designs, but _not_ one of his creations - it lacked a tether. What’s more, it wasn’t one of the simpler designs he shared with the lower ranked necromancers; it was one of two bruiser designs he had come up with during the war, and he hadn’t shared it with anyone… anyone except… 

No. Valmore was dead. He _had_ kept notes, however, and it was possible either the Chain had overlooked them, or that they had wound up leaked by Francis. His frown deepened. He really didn’t like either option; he should go back and… wait. Wait. Francis… hadn’t been wearing his perfume that night, and yet… Deshival hadn’t noticed, because his scent was still familiar. Combined with the strange bruising…

“Amelia, come.”

The terror bounded over, halting directly in front of him and tilting what passed for a head. He knelt, and leaned in to sniff at her.

Well, that was a problem.

Making a note on the map to return later, he instructed his creations back into the wagon. It seemed it was time to return to the Chain.


	15. Chapter 15

It took him several weeks to get back to Bladeholm, and he was all nerves as he drove the wagon up to the keep. The guards reached for their weapons, but he flashed the amulet Syf had given him and they stood down. He ducked into the wagon, instructing his children to sit politely in their cages until someone came to get them, and then hurried into the keep.

The main hall was empty, and he began searching for someone - anyone. He ran into Magus first, coming out of his workout room, and grabbed the eldritch knight’s arm. Magus looked down his nose at the hand on him.

“Francis is undead and there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Wh- What? What are you talking about?”

“You can’t _bluff_ me away, Magus,” he growled. “Francis bruises worse than a living person should, then insists he can’t have a normal cleric look at him, all while smelling like a corpse?” Magus’s eyes went wide. “He smells just like my flesh terrors, Magus, he must have worn the perfume to mask it from me. How long has the Chain known?”

“...I should get Arla.”

* * *

Arla, Vildris, and Magus sat across from him in the main hall. Magus has asked for Deshival to wait until they’d all sat down to start asking questions, so-

“How long has the Chain known that Francis was undead?”

Arla blinked. “I- how did you know?”

“He wasn’t wearing his perfume the night I caught him in your office, and Syf gave me a few flesh terrors to use while on the road-”

“That where you went?” Vildris interrupted. “Was wondering where you’d been. Syf was all secretive about it, covering her ass.”

Deshival frowned. “Yes. I wanted to continue working on my sentence, and it seemed like a good time.” 

“You… were you not at the meeting at the castle after the festival?” Arla asked. “That would explain why we couldn’t find you after, I guess- your sentence was declared fulfilled by the queen.”

Deshival stared at her. 

“Technically, we’re still responsible for your actions, but- Oh, we’ve interrupted you, haven’t we? Please continue.”

“...I compared his scent to my flesh terrors and they were close enough to confirm he was at least undead. If you’ve known this whole time that Arvain’s boyfriend was undead and haven’t told him…”

“I… was not aware that Arvain and Francis had been dating?” Arla looked confused. 

“Pretty sure it would’ve come up somehow,” Vildris said, examining his nails. “That, or he’d have quit acting like Francis being affectionate was a pain.”

“...To answer you, though, we didn’t know until recently.” 

“How?” Deshival frowned disapprovingly. “I know my sleepers were easily rooted out after around the first year or so of my invasion, an undead shouldn’t be able to masquerade as - Oh gods. Please tell me he isn’t a sleeper, I really don’t want those designs to be reused too-”

“Too?” Arla looked alarmed. “You’ve seen them reused? Where?”

“I- the last village I went to.” He pulled out the map, pointing to his note. “We were attacked by a group of gnolls and undead; someone used one of my brutish terror designs, it wasn’t tethered to me but _definitely_ one of the ones I didn’t share. Only Val-”

He paused. The Fleshripper’s symbol, and gnolls resurging into Ismaire’s rural areas. Francis, undead, spying for someone unknown. A design only Valmore could know how to reproduce. The Chain, hiding something from him, constantly out of the keep.

Arla asking about Valmore last spring.

“He didn’t really die, did he.”

The three exchanged glances.

“He’s still alive, and _none of you told me_. I… He must want me dead - worse than dead, probably…” Deshival slowly sunk down into a chair, staring at the table in horror. “Wait- wait, Arvain was supposed to be taking Francis to his special healer the day I left, where is he?”

No one seemed to want to answer, but finally Arla quietly spoke up. “Arvain is missing. That was how we found out about Francis.”

Deshival stared at them, battling between despair and fury. “And you’re just _here_ , instead of _looking_ for him? I left over a _month_ ago, how long has he been gone?”

Magus reached for his shoulder. “Hey, calm down. Where do you think Syf and Kumar are right now.” Deshival looked at him, and he sighed. “Okay, yeah, not the best way of saying that. Look, they’re trying to track him, alright? The rest of us can only wait.” 

Deshival closed his eyes and took a breath, willing himself to calm down. Arvain was missing, Valmore was _alive_ somehow, and the two were connected somehow - it was like a nightmare come to life. 

“You’ll tell me when there’s been any update?” The three of them nodded, and Deshival sighed, wilting a bit. “I’m sorry. I just- the idea of him being captured by… by…” 

“Happens. Doesn’t help that the two of you dumbasses never got to talk your feelings shit out before all this mess.” Deshival glared at Vildris, but the ex-pirate just shrugged and pushed out from the table. “If you need me I’ll be in my room. Probably.”

The other two also stood. 

“Perhaps you should work some more on your quilt,” Arla suggested softly.

“...I left some colors in your room,” Magus grumbled. “Could tell what you were going for, I’m pretty sure.” 

“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean-”

“Quilt looked pretty close to the one Arvain brought with him.”

Deshival flushed, and turned on his heel to stalk off to his room. It was completely a coincidence that the quilt he was trying to make looked like the quilt he and Arvain had when they lived together. How dare Magus assume otherwise.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Impatience

A week passed. He asked Arla daily if there was any news, and daily he was told there was none. Finally, exasperated, he asked, “Do Syf and Kumar even report back? Do you know where they are right now?”

Arla hesitated. “I- Of course they do, when there’s something to report. It’s- I have an idea, yes. We will tell you if anything important changes, Deshival.”

The vampire huffed, and went back to his room. Surely there had to be a better way to - oh. He was a fool, of course! He grabbed his spellbook and made his way to the kitchen, where he filled a bowl with water. He began to scry; first, he tried Arvain. That failed, and he told himself that whoever took him would be smart enough to ward against Divination magic, he was probably fine. He hoped. Second, he tried Syf.

The water rippled, and he saw her. She was talking through her earring; “Yeah, it’s weird, something’s off about this place. No signs of the living, so I doubt Arvain is actually _here_ here, but there’s undead swarming the place.” A pause. “Yeah. You know the place, just south of where Fangs camped before his assault back then. We can move on if you really think it’s not worth it to keep looking here, Arla.”

Deshival let the magic go, frowning. So there was news. He supposed it was possible Syf didn’t check in for a whole week, but… it seemed more likely that Arla didn’t fully trust him. Fair, honestly, he was probably suspected of being involved with this on some level; he was one of the more powerful mages in Valmore’s employ, and he was definitely alive to be fucking with the army…

He also, technically speaking, had motive to kidnap Arvain - but that would be a kind of stupid move, so he hoped the Chain was just being overly cautious and didn’t _actually_ think he was involved in this.

Quietly, carefully, he slipped out of the keep and around to where they kept the wagons. He stuck his head into one of them, and swore as his children peeked out of cages at him - in all of his rush, he hadn’t thought to check if someone else would take them back to the others. What a terrible father he was.

It worked out though, he supposed; it would be good to have backup if there really were hostiles where he was going. Nodding to the guards as he guided the wagon into the street, he set off.

* * *

It took less time than he remembered to reach the area Syf had been in. It was the ruins of a small village; too small to be a priority to the restoration, he supposed. Deshival took his flesh terrors with him as he left the wagon, instructing his golems to stay put for now.

Oddly, he didn’t run into any other beings as he explored the ruins. With how Syf had been talking, he had thought there would be _something_ , but… he shrugged, and sent Oscar and Amelia to explore on their own. If they found anything notable, they would alert him - it would make the search faster. 

He entered a crumbling watch tower, and sighed. He’d really made a mess of this place, hadn’t he? It wasn’t as though he’d been any more brutal here than with the rest of Ismaire, but one could feel it more in a tiny village like this. A lesser conqueror would have simply passed it over, he thought bitterly, but he had felt the need to destroy everything he touched.

“What a mess,” he murmured.

“Yes, I think I would have razed it closer to the ground, personally. I was wondering when you’d come to see me, darling.” 

Deshival froze, and slowly turned around. The root of his nightmares stood in the shadows cast by the tower stairs, wearing a Cheshire grin. His golden eyes glinted in the dark. 

“So happy to see me that you’ve been stunned to silence, I see. Why not come a little closer, pet? It’s been over a year since you left, I’ve waited so long.” 

Wide eyed, Deshival took a step backwards. “H-how? You were dead, I saw your corpse-”

Valmore snarled, eyes flashing red. “Yes, I suppose you would have - Traitor.” His face smoothed out, and the easy smirk returned. “All can be forgiven, though, pet. I just need you to do a little something for me, and you can come back to my side. I’m sure you’ve noticed how poorly you fit in with _them_.”

“I- they’ve been kind to me,” he stammered.

“Part of you, perhaps. They tolerate your vampirism - but what of your children, locked in cages? They’ll just be destroyed when the Chain has no more use for you. You’ll be tossed aside, alone again, with nothing.” Valmore paused for effect, before flinging his arms wide. “But _I_ have seen all that you are, and I have always accepted it. There is room for your children in my home, dearest. You just have to do one little thing for me.”

Deshival did exactly what he wished he’d done six years ago: he turned tail and fled.

He didn’t look behind him as he ran out of the guard tower. Yanking on Oscar and Amelia’s tethers, he raced to the wagon - and came to a halt as Kumar loomed over the horses. “Fancy seeing you here,” he rumbled. 

Deshival looked behind him, and found Syf eyeing him with a hand on her hip. 

“I told you not to go anywhere that wasn’t marked on that map, Fangs.” Her voice had a dangerous edge to it, but he found that he was too preoccupied with Valmore to care.

“I- Syf, there’s- in the tower, I saw Valmore-”

Syf and Kumar exchanged alarmed looks. “We were in there earlier, Fangs, and didn’t see anything. You sure it wasn’t just a trick of the light or something?”

“He spoke to me, he was definitely there, I’d know him anywhere. He wanted me to do something for him, but I ran, I don’t - I don’t want to join him, Syf, I swear, I thought he was _dead_ ,” Deshival pleaded, eyes beginning to water. 

She approached him and hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder, glancing at Kumar as though to check if she was doing this right. “It’s… it will be alright, Fangs. Can I ask, though - did he just talk? He didn’t try to, I dunno, grab you, or attack you, or anything?”

Deshival sniffed, and thought about it as he rubbed one eye. “...No. He was standing in the shadows. He didn’t move at all, besides the usual dramatics.” 

“...I think I’ve got a theory on what’s up. Let’s get back to the keep, okay Fangs? Gotta make a plan with everyone.”


	17. Chapter 17

“I see.” Arla sighed and leaned back in her chair. “You mentioned you have a theory?”

“Yeah. So, Valmore seems the type to come up with contingencies, right? We definitely saw the body die, but what if he managed to set something up to keep his soul from passing on? I didn’t get his head, so I don’t have it.”

“You think he’s a ghost or something?” Vildris asked.

“Something like that. Pretty sure Fangs would’ve recognized a ghost, though - if he can talk, and walk, and looks and sounds like himself, I think he might’ve made himself into some kind of shade.”

Magus frowned. “Don’t like the sound of that. Though, it would keep him from doing much, right?”

“Yeah, it sounded like he couldn’t be in the sun; Fangs said he stayed in the shade. I bet he needs a body to really come back.”

A chill ran down Deshival’s spine. “He has Arvain.”

Syf winced. “...Yeah, if I’m right that’s probably why Arvain’s missing. He’s probably being kept somewhere Valmore could use for a ritual, though, Arvain’s not about to be a willing host for the bastard and I expect it would take some time to set up something to suppress his will.”

“He’s had more than a month,” Deshival sighed. “He’s in Orsion, though, I’m sure.” The Chain turned to look at him, and he blinked. “What? He needs a ritual space, which means he wants a home base that’s secure enough to keep Arvain from us, and keep any elements of the ritual safe. Not to mention it’s where he died, making it an easy place to gather resources. He’s definitely in Orsion.”

The Chain exchanged glances, and Arla nodded. “That would make sense, you’re right; we should see what support we can get from Ismaire before we march. I don’t know exactly how many forces he’s kept or acquired over the past year, but from what we’ve seen it’s more than the five of us can handle.”

“Six,” Deshival said, folding his arms. “And you’ve got my army. Better to set out immediately with that and ask Ismaire to send reinforcements - if Valmore manages to take Arvain’s body before we get there, our chances of stopping him go down significantly.” He doesn’t mention that it would be because of him. “I’ve been enhancing my creations anyways, they’re ready to go.”

They stared at him, and he shrugged, staring back. He would leave on his own if he had to; he wasn’t going to stand around waiting for Valmore to hurt Arvain.

“...I will send a message to the queen,” said Arla. “I… suppose we will set out in the morning, after making preparations.” 

Deshival nodded in thanks, and stood; he wanted to revisit his creations and spellbook again before morning. Syf caught up to him on his way out of the keep, though. 

“Fangs,” she whispered. “You know he probably wants you to give him your body, right? That’s probably the favor he wanted so bad.”

He shrugged. “I had considered it. This is too important for me to stay away, though, and he’ll still need the ritual to force me into it. I need to make sure Arvain is safe.”

She sighed, and rolled her eyes. “Alright, no need to get sappy. Just… watch yourself.”

He shrugged, and left.

* * *

He found little to work on with his army, and decided to simply cast a mass cloaking spell on them to make moving them through the city easier. Deshival instructed them all to move outside of the city walls and wait for him to the south, and then set about finding something else to do while he waited for morning. He didn’t particularly feel like sleeping.

Wandering through the streets as the sun set, he came across a jeweler’s shop and paused. His hand fell to his pocket, and he slowly approached the door. A bell chimed as he entered, and a shopkeep looked up from the back desk.

“Can I help you?”

He approached, and pulled a ring out of his pocket; the jeweler’s eyes went wide, seeing the flawless rubies and diamonds set into the gold band. “I was wondering if I could get this appraised.”

“I- yes! Certainly, let me just-” The woman scrambled to collect her materials, and began to carefully examine the ring. She let out a low whistle. “This is some fine work. Do you know what it was purchased for?” 

He shook his head. “No idea. It was a… gift, I guess. I know it was custom commissioned.”

“Well, I’d make sure to thank whoever gave it to you; this beauty is worth upwards of 30,000 gold.”

He winced. “Actually, I was hoping to get rid of it.”

“I don’t… know that we keep that kind of gold around the shop…”

“To be honest with you, I had a trade in mind.”


	18. Chapter 18

The morning saw the Chain and Deshival ready to leave Bladeholm. He informed them that his forces were already outside the city, waiting for marching orders, and the group piled into one of the wagons. As they passed through the gates, Deshival gave orders for his creations to follow, and lifted the cloaking spell; Magus let out a low whistle from his place in the driver’s seat.

“Seeing ‘em all in daylight puts a new perspective on it,” he muttered.

Vildris poked his head out to look, and agreed. “Yeah, don’t think I realized how many there were during the invasion. Glad they’re on our side now.”

Deshival didn’t pay them too much mind, deciding to focus on his army; if he meditated, he could see and hear through one of them, and direct them that way. While the rest of the Chain spent the days of travel alternating driver shifts and chatting, he focused on keeping watch through his terrors and ensuring any threats were taken care of. His efforts made sure the Chain could focus on travel instead of defending themselves, up until they entered Orsion.

Here, Valmore’s armies were thickest. Deshival had his army encircle the wagon as they camped for the evening, forming a complete shield; a few of the Chain seemed disconcerted to realize just how many of the terrors were capable of flight, but he ignored them. 

“Alright. I lived here for two years, I know the layout of the palace pretty well.” The Chain gathered around him, and he began to sketch out the floor plan. Deshival pointed out various rooms. “I think the best path is to wind through the palace and check these locations as we go, ending in Valmore’s chambers. The only place we wouldn’t have checked is the dungeons, but I have a feeling he wouldn’t want to be spending his time working down there; they’re pretty gross, being honest, and I think he only went down there to harass me.” 

Arla and Magus poured over the plans, while Syf yawned and leaned against Kumar, seemingly not paying attention. Vildris looked to Deshival. “D’you have a plan to get us through his forces? Kinda suspect they’re not gonna just roll over for us, there’s a lot of them.”

Deshival nodded. “Yes, I’ve got a group of my forces in mind to escort us; it will be primarily golems. You might have noticed that a lot of our opponents are on the smaller side, yes?” Vildris nodded. “The golems are very good at… counter-gravitational crowd control.”

Vildris squinted at him, and Magus rolled his eyes. “He means they throw the little guys out of the way pretty easy, so the plan is to just barrel through.”

“Why didn’t you just say that,” Vildris complained. 

Once plans had been discussed, dinner eaten, and bedding set up, Deshival pulled Syf to the side of the camp. He pulled out the belt she had given him and a small bag, that clinked quietly as he handed it out to her. She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I have a plan,” he said quietly. “I’d like the two of us to take point once we reach the palace.”

“Do I get to know what this plan is?”

“You’ll figure it out once we get there. I just need you to take these, okay? I trust you to finish the job for me.”

Her other eyebrow raised to meet the first, and she stared at him quietly for a moment. “Alright. Get some sleep, Fangs, we’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

“Will do.”

He watched her walk over to Kumar, and took a breath. He wouldn’t be sleeping that night.

* * *

He was pleased to see Syf wearing the belt the next morning. A few others asked her about it, but she shrugged it off saying she thought it could be useful. They gathered together after breakfast, finally, and Deshival pulled on a handful of golems. The golems closed rank, completely surrounding the Chain; after a moment of consideration, Deshival selected a few of his flying terrors as well.

They began to march. The howls of gnolls and undead from outside their vanguard were loud as they entered the horde, but his golems withstood the pressure from all sides to allow them to advance safely. His flesh terrors picked off enemies here and there, and once the group had crossed enemy lines Deshival instructed the rest of his army to begin their assault. Now distracted, the enemy forces let up a bit, and the group picked up their pace.

It only took an hour to reach the palace gates. Deshival’s golems knocked down parts of the walls to push the Chain into the courtyard, and he winced; he and Valmore had done enough damage to Orsion, it felt a bit disrespectful to keep destroying things. They made it to the inner building safely, though, and Deshival instructed his terrors to move in ahead of them. The Chain followed him inside, and several of his golems ducked in beside them; the rest sat down outside the door, barring any entry or exit.

Deshival paid little mind to the rest of the Chain. He focused his attentions on the hallways and his mental map of the place, and set a quick pace for the group. Recklessly, he threw himself past traps and around corners, launching into groups of wandering sentries with little fanfare; the Chain struggled to keep up, and Syf was silent by his side. The exhaustion from several days without sleep was beginning to wear on him, but he forced himself to keep moving. Several times, only his supernatural reflexes saved him from being hit by a trap or spell; he was vaguely aware of Arla chiding him, but all he could think of was finding Arvain.

Door after door was flung open, and nothing but empty rooms and cobwebs were to be found. They advanced, continuing their search, and Kumar commented that surely they’d find him soon - but the growing pit in Deshival’s stomach told him that he knew exactly where this would end up. Two floors searched, and all that was left were the guest and residence wings… 

Deshival ignored the guest rooms, leaving his terrors to search them with the rest of the Chain. Instead, he pressed onwards towards the residences, his golems and Syf beside him. He swept past the chambers of the former generals, then his own; and finally, he reached a familiar, closed door. Hand trembling, he reached to open it and stepped through, Syf close behind.

Arvain kneeled in the center of the room, glowing red ropes of energy binding him in place. He looked up, startled - “Deshival?” But Deshival was already looking to the other figure in the room. He gestured to his golems, who sealed the doorway; a few shouts from the hallway told him that the Chain had decided to follow him instead of finishing their own searches, but it didn’t matter now - he ignored them.

“Hello, Valmore.”

The shade grinned. “Hello, pet. I knew you would come to me eventually. Have you figured out my favor, yet?”

“You need a body; a willing host is better than unwilling, ritual or not.” Syf was silent, watching Deshival closely; he carefully didn’t look at her, not wanting to draw attention to her presence. “You want mine.”

“So clever, my dear. Yes - just think! You agree to let me in, and we can return to how it used to be. Conquer Arlan, grind the mortals beneath our heels. Surely you’ve worked out that you’re not meant for domesticity?”

He shrugged. “You were right, back in the keep; I _am_ worthless on my own.” Arvain opened his mouth to disagree, and Valmore flicked his wrist; Arvain gasped as electricity sparked from the restraints, and fell silent. Deshival watched, his mouth pressed into a hard line. “Why did you use him as your way into the keep? I would have thought you’d prefer to get him out of the way, not flirt with him.”

Valmore chuckled. “Ah, well… the boy is so trusting, it made everything so much easier. By the time I had prepared my sleeper such that it wouldn’t immediately be caught, you had left Bladeholm; I knew if I stuck around him long enough, you would show up sooner or later. Besides, I was curious what all the fuss was about, seeing as you left my _generous_ affections and protection for some mortal who couldn’t be bothered to keep you properly the first time. It turns out he’s incredibly boring, however, such a goody-goody. I suppose the sex must just be that good, not that I ever managed to convince him to put out…”

Arvain growled and tried to speak, but Valmore lifted his hand threateningly and the paladin shrunk back, glaring. 

“You know, I was just going to take this one’s body, but the preparations take so _long_. It will all be so much simpler if you just agree to assist me, yes?” Valmore’s eyes glittered dangerously. “You _could_ betray me - again - but I’m sure you’ve worked out that I would be particularly difficult to kill in this form. You’d have to wait for me to take a body-” He knelt, and stroked Arvain’s cheek; the man shuddered as ghostly fingers phased through his skin. “-and I’m sure you know how that will go.” He stood, extending a hand towards Deshival. “Surely you would prefer to protect your favorite mortal, and return to the comfort of my side?”

Deshival paced towards the window, and stared at the heavy curtains blocking sunlight from entering the room.

“And if I agree, Arvain will remain untouched?”

“Don’t-” Arvain cut off, wincing from the pain. “He’ll - just control - you,” he choked out. Deshival didn’t look at him.

“Yes, of course,” came the poisoned honey voice. “He’ll be safe - from me, from the war, from anything that could try to hurt him. We’ll keep him safe from it all, darling.”

Deshival turned around, making brief eye contact with Syf and giving the barest of nods; her eyes widened in realization. He looked to Valmore, and slowly opened his arms. 

“My body is yours.”

Grinning, the shade rushed into him, and Deshival felt his senses grow hazy - and then there was nothing.


	19. Chapter 19

As Syf and Arvain watched, Deshival went limp. Syf began to quietly circle around to the window, as Deshival rose his head.

“Ahhh, a good little pet until the end.” A shark like grin was aimed at Arvain. “Did you really think he wouldn’t submit to me? Even if I hadn’t trained him so well, he’s always been absolutely pathetic when you’re involved. A pity you never realized what you had before it came to me.”

Arvain snarled, and the restraints crackled. Syf flung open the curtains in one swift movement, flooding the room with sunlight and drawing the attention of both men. Valmore’s grin, strange and out of place with Deshival’s features, slid away to be replaced with confusion.

“When-?” 

“ **Kneel**.”

A moment of hesitation, and Valmore’s knees buckled beneath him. “How- Why can’t I-”

“I wondered why Fangs had been wearing himself out so hard lately. Makes sense now, I guess, though now I’ve gotta take back that time I said he wasn’t stupid.” She paced around Valmore, coming to a stop behind him; he twisted in place, trying to look at her as she drew her waraxe off her back. 

“Syf- Syf no, there’s got to be another way-”

“Surely it would be more profitable to side with me instead of against me? Syf, was it? I can offer you power, you’ve seen just a piece of what I can do-” Valmore tried to crawl away from her on his knees.

“You can’t, Deshival’s still in there-”

“He made his choice, Arvain. **Sit still**.” Valmore froze in place.

“Really, stop and consider- you stand to gain a lot from-”

“Man, shut up. You really think you can outdo Asmodeus as my sugar daddy? I have high standards, motherfucker.” 

She swung her axe, and Arvain howled - “ _NO!_ ” - but it was too late. Valmore’s - Deshival’s? - head rolled from his body. She saw the locket Deshival showed her slowly appear, invisibility spell broken, as the body below her turned to ash in the sun. Arvain’s restraints disappeared at the same time that the golems began to crumble, and the Chain gathered in what was once Valmore’s chambers. 

“Oh, Arvain,” Arla whispered, watching the man dig through ash to pick up the locket. “What do we do now? Valmore is defeated for good now, I hope?”

“Yeah, should be. Made himself corporeal and tied his life to Fangs’, can’t come back from that one.” Syf watched Arvain clutch the locket to his chest, golden hair obscuring his face as he kneeled in the ashes. “He’s gonna be fucking useless for months if we don’t bring the guy back.”

Arla looked at her, startled, and Syf pulled out the bag Deshival had given her. “Check it; diamonds. The guy really planned this whole thing out, I think I might actually be impressed.” 

Arla peered into the bag, eyes wide. “Yes, this… certainly should be enough. I will have to make a few preparations once we return to the keep, but otherwise…”

Magus and Vildris helped Arvain up from the floor, and began to walk him out of the room. Arla followed, murmuring words of comfort to him. Kumar, however, stayed behind.

“Someone’s going soft~” he sung. She glowered at him as he grinned. “Admit it, you care~”

“I do _not_ , you great fuzzy lug.”

“Hey, you like my fuzz.” He swept her up over his shoulder, and she shrieked.

“Kumar! Put me down, or I swear-”

“Not until you admit it!”

“Fine! I like your fuzz!”

“Not what I meant, but y’know, I’ll take it.”

* * *

The Chain was gathered around in a circle, watching expectantly as Arla began to chant. She moved about the circle, sprinkling holy water in some pattern only she could see, before kneeling at the edge of it and taking the bag of diamonds into her hands. A hush fell over the circle as she fell silent, and a glow began to emanate from the bag.

In the center of the circle, a shape began to form out of white light. Slowly, it spread to form a torso, limbs, a head… the light faded, and Deshival began to fall. Arvain rushed forward, catching the smaller man and cradling him in his arms; he watched Deshival’s face anxiously, as his eyes began to flutter open.

Arvain inhaled sharply, caught in those deep blues he wasn’t sure he’d see again.

“Did… did it work?” Deshival mumbled, and Arvain let out a sob and kissed him, fingers burying tightly into silver hair. There were a few hoots and catcalls from the rest of the group - Magus grumbled that they had rooms for a reason.

Arvain pulled back, taking a breath of air. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, it worked.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ending!

Arvain insisted on carrying Deshival up to his room, despite his protests that “he could walk _fine_ , Arvain, you don’t have to.” Deshival gave in and leaned into Arvain’s chest with a smile; it felt strange, not being able to catch his scent the same way as before, but his warmth was just as comforting. 

Closing Deshival’s door behind them, Arvain gently placed him on the bed. He hesitated. “I… I’m sorry for kissing you like that, so suddenly. I should’ve asked first, I just…” 

Deshival’s expression sobered, and he tried not to sound too disappointed. “Do you regret it?”

“No! No, of course not, I just- I don’t mean to force you into anything, is all. I should have made sure you wanted it.” 

Deshival snorted. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for over six years now, Arvain; there’s nothing to worry about.”

Relaxing a bit, Arvain sat down next to Deshival on the bed. “Maybe… maybe we should finish that talk now.”

“...Okay.”

“First of all, I meant to tell you but I got interrupted - Francis and I were never involved. He was a good friend of mine years ago, but… clearly, Valmore got ahold of him somehow.” He paused. “Honestly, I… I’ve only ever had eyes for you, Dess. Even after… it hurt. It hurt a lot to see you with him. I wondered a lot if I just… wasn’t enough for you.”

Deshival sat up, putting a hand on Arvain’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I… I thought it was over between us, when you left, that… that you didn’t want me anymore. I never wanted to hurt you…”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I never should’ve left, I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“It… it’s not your fault,” Deshival said quietly. “I know I’d been distant for a while before that. I… there was something I never told you.”

Arvain’s expression shifted, and he waited, nervously.

“I… after Sirethlan and Tytria… I tried to become a cleric.”

He blinked. “You… you did?”

“I… You know I was never religious, like you were. Are.” A nod. “I tried to contact gods, to ask for… you know.” He paused for a while, but Arvain just waited patiently for him to continue. “No one wanted to help me,” he whispered. “I couldn’t… get anyone to respond. I tried everything, I sought out minor gods and legends and… the only answer I got was Valmore. I didn’t - I didn’t want to tell you - you were doing so well in the church-”

Arvain gathered him into his arms as the tears started to fall, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I never realized,” he murmured. “You know I wouldn’t have judged you for that, right, Dess?” 

Deshival shook in his arms, clinging to Arvain’s shirt. “I… I was so afraid you’d leave me… and then I drove you off anyways…”

“Shhh. It’s okay, Dess. I’m here.” He held Deshival like that for a long moment. “...A lot of things make sense now. I wish you’d told me, I thought… I thought you just didn’t feel the same way about me, after everything.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into Arvain’s chest. “I didn’t - I didn’t mean to, you’re all I wanted. All I’ve been wanting, since you left all I could think about was how things used to be with us, but I thought I ruined any chance of having that again.”

Arvain pulled back, taking Deshival’s face into his hands. He gently swiped a thumb across Deshival’s cheek, wiping away a tear, and leaned in to kiss him softly. When he pulled away, Deshival tried to chase his lips - but he pressed their foreheads together instead. 

“I… very much would like to work on repairing our relationship,” he said softly. Deshival inhaled, but waited for Arvain to finish. “There’s… a lot, I think we need to work out, but… if you want that, I would love to try.” Deshival opened his mouth to speak, but Arvain put a finger to his lips, shushing him. “I don’t want to push you into anything, Dess. I… I want what’s best for you, but only you know what that is. If you ask me to back off, or leave, or… I’ll respect that, okay? I want to be what you need, no matter what it is.”

“I love you, Arvain. I don’t- I don’t think I’ll ever stop. I want to try. Please.”

Arvain lit up, and swooped down to capture his lips again; Deshival melted into him. The kiss deepened, and Deshival’s tongue found his - but after a few moments, Arvain pulled away again.

“I just remembered something. Wait here, I’ll be right back.” Arvain darted out of the room, and Deshival stared after him, confused. 

A few moments later, he returned, clutching something in his hand; he sat on the bed again, and took Deshival’s left hand, pulling it towards him. Gently, he slid a familiar ring onto Deshival’s finger.

“My wedding ring,” he breathed, looking up at Arvain with misty eyes. “You kept it?”

Arvain nodded. “You left it in our bedroom and I… I couldn’t bear to get rid of it.” He bit his lip and revealed the other ring in his palm, holding it out to Deshival and offering his own hand. With shaky fingers, Deshival slid it on, and brought the hand to his lips, brushing them across Arvain’s knuckles. 

“You know, Syf keeps reminding me that legally, we’re still married.” 

Breathless, Deshival pulled him down for a kiss. He broke away just long enough to shove Arvain down onto the bed, and the golden-haired man laughed as Deshival climbed on top of him. 

“Mr. and Mr. Mailautae,” Deshival whispered, brushing Arvain’s hair out of the way.

“For as long as you’ll have me,” Arvain murmured with a smile, his hands finding Deshival’s waist as the smaller man swooped down to kiss him fiercely.

“Forever and ever. And for even longer after that.”


End file.
